Alex stared at the screen, the confirmation of his choice glowing back at him:
"Partner Selected: Brian Thompson."
He squinted at the screen. That was it? No fanfare, no dramatic entrance? He half-expected Brian to appear out of thin air, materializing in the corner of the room wearing one of his atrocious Hawaiian shirts, probably holding a half-eaten hot pocket.
But nothing happened.
Alex cleared his throat and glanced around his room. “Uh, Brian? You here?”
The silence was deafening.
He tapped the screen again, expecting some explanation. “Hey, system, where’s Brian? I just picked him. Shouldn’t he, I don’t know, pop out of the ether or something?”
The screen flickered, and the reply appeared with maddening calmness:
"I am not God, Mr. Hartman."
Alex’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean you’re not—" He paused, waving his hand toward the empty air in front of him. “You’re running this whole show! I thought you’d at least summon him or something!”
More text appeared as a glowing screen could manage:
"Partner recruitment requires standard human interaction. Brian Thompson resides at 112 Walnut Street, Apartment 3B, 1.4 miles from your current location."
Alex blinked at the address, dumbfounded. “Wait. You’re telling me I have to go find him? You can rewind time and throw me into 2010, but you can’t Uber a person here?”
"Correct. Proceed with recruitment."
It paused for a moment then continued.
"Please remember that ride-sharing services are still in their infancy."
Alex groaned and flopped back onto his bed, the springs creaking under him. He stared at the popcorn ceiling, utterly exasperated. He’d picked Brian because he thought it would be a quick and easy way to throw the game into chaos—not because he wanted to ACTUALLY talk to the guy again.
“Unbelievable,” Alex muttered, pulling a pillow over his face.
The screen buzzed, drawing his attention; Taking the pillow off his face to glance at the screen.
"Noted."
Alex stared at the phone for a long moment, silently cursing the smug little shi-.
Swinging his legs off the bed. “I guess we’re doing this. Brian Thompson, 2010 version Here I come…” After that declaration to the world, it was silent. as if the System was quietly laughing at him. He scowled and rolled off the bed, stuffing the phone into his pocket.
He walked across the cluttered floor and stopped in front of the mirror. Slouched shoulders and poor posture made his 5’10” frame look closer to 5’8”. Noticing the way he carried himself, Alex rolled his shoulders back and stood straighter, trying to project more confidence than he felt.
“The first thing to fix is this bad posture,” he muttered to himself.
With his head lifted, he could see himself more clearly. The word “ugly duckling” came to mind immediately. He had just hit another growth spurt, but his body hadn’t caught up to itself yet. His limbs were gangly, his torso thin but softened by a slight belly from years of avoiding anything remotely athletic. His angular features only exaggerated his frail appearance, making him look like he’d been stretched out without filling in. Ironically all he owned was athletic clothing.
His dark, curly brown hair was a chaotic mess, the kind of hair that teenage Alex had never figured out how to manage. It stuck out at odd angles, as though rebelling against any attempts at control.
The one feature he couldn’t criticize was his deep blue eyes. They were startling, even now. The irises were a rich, dark blue at the center, fading to almost black at the edges, like staring into the depths of the ocean. The longer Alex looked at them, the more they seemed to pull him in, full of potential and untapped depth.
His gaze was steady.
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I sigh, staring at the mirror. My reflection stares back—18-year-old me. It’s surreal. The face is familiar but almost foreign, like looking at an old video from the past. I run my fingers through my full hair, and there’s that annoying hint of teenage acne on my chin & chest.
Alright, Hartman. Blend in. Act natural. Just be... you, but younger. I’ve got to navigate this circus of life without tipping anyone off.
But I need to focus. Right now, it’s all about blending in—making sure no one notices anything too strange about me. I’ve got to look like I’m still just Alex. The Alex they know. I hear the TV flickering on downstairs and the sound of pots clanging together. So, that means Grandpa Joe’s up, which is probably a sign that Mom’s starting breakfast, and if she’s up, Dad’s probably already settled into his chair, ready to complain about something. I can’t delay much longer. I’ve got a mission to accomplish—but before I even think about recruiting Brian, I’ve got to face my family.
Dad…
A lightning bolt hit me hard.
“Dad is alive again… I know everything, I can save him or at least I can lower the chances of him dying early.”
My thoughts started to race.
There’s nothing I can do for now… I need to get my priorities straight. Make a list and check them off. Dad still has a few years but the clock is ticking. I need to get medication for my ADHD to help me focus. Damn it I’m not diagnosed yet, that wouldn’t happen till my sophomore year of college.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
Focus Alex!
While having these thoughts I stand there in front of the mirror, debating whether or not to take a shower. I’m not exactly filthy, but I can feel the stink of yesterday, the lingering smell of hotdog if I lift my arm. It’s not even the body that bugs me. I rub the temple of my forehead in frustration.
Ugh its morning and I can’t have yesterdays B.O.
I take one more look at my body before heading to the shower I share with my little brother.
The hormonal horny late night mood swings are going to suck, just need to go to sleep before 10.
The warm water will help me clear my head. At least for a few minutes, it’ll feel like I’m not completely out of place in this new, old skin. Plus, the real task starts later. Right now, I need to get into the right headspace.
Finally, I strip down and step under the stream of lukewarm water, letting it wash over me. The rusty showerhead sputters a bit, The shower’s got one of those old designs, that only sort of works, but it’s warm enough to get the job done. I let the water pour over me. The water helps clear my head, but it doesn’t wash away the weirdness of it all.
You’re not some awkward high school kid anymore, I tell myself, scrubbing at my face. You’re a grown-ass man with a mission. A ridiculous mission, but still... a mission.
After a couple of minutes of standing there, lost in thought, trying to shake off the nerves that have been clinging to my bones ever since I woke up in 2010.
I’m not some confused 18-year-old anymore. At least, I shouldn’t be. I’m not just dealing with the past—I’m holding the future in my head. I’ve got to remember that.
I take a deep breath, letting the water soothe me as I deeply scrub my skin.
I need to make myself a skincare routine ASAP.
After A deep cleaning, I rinse off and grab the only towel (Damp). I’m not going to waste time thinking too much about the "why" or the "how" just yet. One step at a time.
----------------------------------------
Back in my room, I rifle through my closet. Everything’s exactly how I left it—or rather, how my younger self left it. The band T-shirts, the crumpled hoodies, the baggy gym shorts that were never quite the right fit. It’s all here, staring at me like a time capsule I didn’t ask to open, posters I thought were cool but now make me cringe. Still, it’s my stuff. I take a quick stock of what’s clean. My options are slim.
I pull on a worn band T-shirt that fits a little loose,
“I wish I had some pair of jeans that fit just right,” I said, drawing out the words in a playful, twangy country accent.
I put on some basketball shorts that I’ve had for way too long, and a hoodie to throw over the top. Simple. Low-key. Nothing too flashy, nothing to draw attention nothing that screams, “Hey, I’m a 34-year-old man pretending to be 18.”. I don’t want to stand out—not yet. I need to observe, adjust, and get a feel for this version of life before I do anything too radical.
I hope getting a new wardrobe isn’t radical, that thought makes me chuckle.
I pause as I try to swallow down the rush of confusion that threatens to creep up on me again. I’ve got to make it work. I’ve got to get familiar with my surroundings before I start making any big moves.
Satisfied, I head to my door, bracing myself for the inevitable chaos of breakfast with the Family.
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I step out of my room, hearing the sounds of my family already moving through the house. My brother's door is still closed so he's probably sleeping in. The TV’s still on downstairs, and I can tell Grandpa Joe’s probably glued to some random show about history like he always is. His voice—loud and off-color—will be booming any minute now.
I make my way down the stairs, trying to stay calm. I can hear my mom humming something—probably a Missy Elliott song she’s been obsessed with recently—and the distinct sizzle of bacon frying. Mom’s up. And if she’s up, Dad’s already in his chair, probably nursing a cup of coffee and preparing to complain about everything.
The smell of frying bacon hits me as I take my first step on to the stairs, a scent so familiar it almost knocks me off balance, the creak of each step under my feet reminding me just how old this house is.
The TV is already blaring in the living room—some history documentary narrated by a guy who sounds like he smokes three packs a day. Grandpa Joe is seated in his usual spot at the kitchen table, his oatmeal sitting untouched in front of him as he shouts at the screen.
“Wrong again!” he hollers. “That’s not how you negotiate with a dictator! You think charm works? You’ve gotta offer incentives. Incentives!”
I slowly walk down the stairs my heart pounding in my chest, my stomach tight. It’s like stepping back into a world I don’t quite fit into anymore.
step into the kitchen. Mom’s at the stove, humming Work It under her breath while flipping bacon with the precision of a surgeon. She’s still wearing her old bathrobe, her hair tied back in a messy bun. The radio on the counter crackles with static, a soft beat playing in the background.
The kitchen is alive with the sound of sizzling bacon and Mom humming Get Ur Freak On under her breath.
“Morning,” I say, my voice steady.
“Morning, Alex,” Mom calls without looking up. “Breakfast’ll be ready soon. Grab a seat.”
She glances over her shoulder and raises an eyebrow. “You’re up early. Got something important today?”
“Not really,” I reply, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. “Just felt like getting a head start.”
Her eyes linger on me for a moment, as if she’s trying to figure out what’s different. “Well, whatever it is, you look more put together than usual. Maybe I’ll finally stop hearing your dad complain about you wasting the day away.”
Speak of the devil.
Frank’s sitting in his recliner at the far end of the room, nursing a cup of coffee and reading the paper. He doesn’t even look up as he grumbles, “If only he’d start the day with a plan instead of a whim.”
Past me would have bit back a retort; but all I could do was nod my head in supplication of his words.
As much of a hard ass as he is I love him, and I just know if I say anything now I’ll just start to cry and then tackle him with a hug.
This is the man I’ve grown up with—hard, cold, and always ready to criticize. I know how much harder life gets for him after 2010. But right now, he’s still Frank Hartman: a man stuck in his ways and doing his best to hold it all together. It’s hard to look at him. To know what’s coming. But I can’t let it show. Not now. It’s strange being here, knowing how much will change. Knowing that Dad has only a few more years left. Knowing how hard it’s going to be for Mom when he’s gone.
“I’m figuring things out,” I say simply, pouring myself some orange juice,
Grandpa Joe, oblivious to the tension, looks up from the TV and grins. “Figuring things out, huh? That code for something?” he bounces his big white bushy eyebrows.
I chuckle. “Yeah, it’s code for drinking orange juice instead of coffee and thinking about life.”
He laughs, slapping the table. “There’s my boy! Keep drinking that OJ—you’ll solve all the world’s problems in no time.”
Mom shoots him a look. “Joe, don’t hurt yourself please.”
“What? The kid’s got potential!” Grandpa Joe winks at me, then leans in conspiratorially. “And speaking of potential, Alex, I’ve got some old army buddies who swear by this thing called ‘success by stamina.’ It’s all about pacing yourself—”
“Dad!” Mom cuts him off, flipping the bacon onto a plate. “Not at breakfast!”
Grandpa throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll save the wisdom for later.”
The banter makes me smile probably harder than it’s meant to.
The usual chaos continues around me as I sip my OJ, not really paying attention to the conversation anymore. I get my breakfast in silence, letting the rhythm of family life swirl around me. Grandpa Joe is now arguing with the TV, something about supply chains and military logistics. Mom is humming again, dancing a little as she moves between the stove and the sink. And Dad… Dad just keeps flipping through the paper, ignoring it all.
After breakfast, I grab my sunglasses and head for the door. “See you guys later,” I say, my voice steadier than it’s been in years.
Mom waves me off with a smile, Dad doesn’t look up from his paper.
Grandpa waves me off with a grin. “Bring back a girlfriend while you’re at it!”
As I step outside, the humid morning air hits me like a slap to the face. I take a deep breath, shoving my hands into my pockets. The family warmth of the house lingers behind me, but out here, it’s all sharp edges and uncertainty.
“I can do this,” I mutter to myself, starting down the street.
But as I walk, I can’t shake the feeling that no matter what I do, everything is going to get a whole lot more complicated before it gets better.