Chapter 1: Three Lives, One Moment

Dad, straight out of the 1940s, woke up one day with the ability to read people’s minds.

It’s the kind of story you’d never believe if you heard it in a diner over black coffee and a slice of cherry pie—but, well, here we are. Dad’s voice still has that clipped, old-school cadence—sometimes he’ll pause in the middle of a sentence, like he’s listening to a radio broadcast only he can hear. The world changed on him, but somehow, he’s the one with the upper hand now. Go figure.

And me? Yeah, really. I’m from the 21st century, with the ability to Google-search my own brain for the real answer.

It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. Sometimes I feel like my head’s a library with just one magic book. No rabbit holes, no Wikipedia rabbit trails—just the straight-up answer, whether I want it or not.

Honestly, sometimes I miss the guessing.

We’re both stuck in the old world. You know what? Let’s call it Liberty America... a place that feels like a cross between postwar D.C. and a country that never quite made it to the modern age.

Dad and I teamed up—building, inventing, laying down roads. Determined to make Liberty America the greatest nation on earth.

Picture a place where the streets still ring with marching bands and parades. The smell of coal smoke mixing with fresh-cut hay. The radio plays big band music—right alongside the crackle of protest speeches. We’re not in the past, not exactly. But it sure feels like history is breathing down our necks every step of the way.

The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was my mom, her face twisted with pain, running straight at the big stone fireplace in the living room.

It was one of those moments that freezes in your mind forever. Sunlight falling in dusty beams across the old braided rug. The mantle clock ticking too loud. Mom’s slippers scraping on the hardwood as she charged toward the hearth. Even half-awake, I knew something was terribly wrong.

No time to think. Instinct kicked in: I scrambled off the rug and threw myself in front of the hearth.

No time for heroics—just pure gut reaction. My socks slid on the wood, and I barely managed to plant myself between her and the cold stone. The air was thick with the smell of last night’s ashes.

Mom’s head slammed into my chest. I let out a grunt—pain, shock, the whole deal. But it snapped me awake.

The impact rattled my ribs and knocked the wind out of me. For a split second, I thought I might be seeing stars, but the pain was real enough to slice right through the fog in my head.

[Isn’t this just like last time, when Mom tried to end it all?]

The memory stabbed at me, sharp and cold. I remembered the way her body crumpled. The horror in everyone’s eyes. I never wanted to see that again.

[No wonder she died instantly—taking a hit like that.]

I could almost hear the sickening thud from before, echoing through time. My chest ached. It was more than just the bruise.

Clutching my stomach, I cried out. Half from pain, half from panic.

My voice came out raw, desperate—a sound I barely recognized. The room spun. My heart pounded so fast I thought it might leap out of my chest.

Mom hadn’t expected me to stop her. When she saw me—sweating, doubled over—her face went ghost-pale with guilt.

She reached out, trembling. Her lips parted, like she wanted to say something—but the words just wouldn’t come. I saw tears well up in her eyes. For a moment, all the anger and fear in the room just froze.

My older brother stood nearby. He looked worried, but his eyes were cold as he watched me.

Elliot’s arms were crossed, jaw clenched. To anyone else, he was the picture of concern. But I knew that look—calculating, always sizing up the angles. He didn’t flinch, not even when Mom started to cry.

I looked up at Dad. His face was stone. Impossible to read.

He stood ramrod straight, hands behind his back like an old army officer. His eyes flickered, but his expression was granite. Was he angry? Afraid? Lost in thought? I couldn’t tell.

Quickly, I dropped to my knees again. Anxiety twisted inside me.

My knees hit the floorboards with a thud. I pressed my palms together, praying for something—anything—to break the silence. The tension was thick enough to choke on.

I’d actually come back again. Unbelievable.

A shiver ran through me, the realization settling in like a cold draft. This wasn’t just déjà vu—this was a second (no, third) chance, dropped in my lap like a pair of loaded dice.

That made three lives now. Three.

Three chances. Three different sets of scars. I could still feel the weight of each one, like layers of old coats I couldn’t shrug off.

In my first life, I was a college student at a top school in the 21st century. I died saving a kid from drowning at a summer camp.

It was supposed to be a simple summer job—teaching archery, lifeguarding at Lake Arrowhead Camp. One second I was hauling a kid out of the water. The next, I was staring up at the sky, lungs burning, the world going dark. Heroic, maybe. Tragic, definitely.

When I woke up, I was the youngest son—the black sheep—of the Whitaker family in Liberty America.

The Whitakers had a reputation in town. Old money, big house on the hill, Sunday suits, and secrets behind every door. I was the odd one out—always too loud, too curious, never quite fitting the mold.

I was full of ambition. Even if Dad didn’t care much for me, I was determined to make something of myself. No matter what.

I kept a notebook under my pillow, scribbling ideas for inventions, business schemes—anything to get out from under Elliot’s shadow. Every morning I’d wake up thinking, Today’s the day I prove I belong.

And I had Google in my head—my secret weapon.

It was like having a cheat code for life. Answers at my fingertips, no matter how tough the problem. I’d whisper questions to myself, pretending I was just thinking out loud. But really, I was searching for a way to change my fate.

Unlike the real Google, when I searched my mental browser, I didn’t get a bunch of links or clickbait. I got the one right answer—text, pictures, sometimes even video. If it was complicated, there were step-by-step guides.

It was like my brain had its own personal tutor—one that never got tired or annoyed. Diagrams would pop up in my mind’s eye. Formulas and blueprints, as clear as if I’d printed them out. Sometimes it felt like cheating. But when you’re desperate, you take what you can get.

With this kind of cheat code, wasn’t I the real main character? Sometimes I wondered.

I’d daydream about it, imagining myself as the star of my own story—the underdog genius, the one who changes everything. It was a nice thought, even if reality didn’t always agree.

But I died before I could win. Just like that.

My dreams hit a wall, and that wall had a name—Elliot. It all fell apart faster than I could have imagined. Way faster.

Just as I finished inventing soap, I got framed by my older brother—Elliot, the golden boy. Colluding with foreign spies, they said. I got tossed in county jail.

The sheriff’s men dragged me out in the middle of the night, rain lashing at the windows. The cell was cold and damp. The only light came from a flickering bulb overhead. Elliot didn’t even look at me as they slammed the bars shut.

My mom was just a maid in the Whitaker estate. Even when I turned fifteen, she’d only been promoted to housekeeper. That was as far as she got.

She kept her head down, working long hours, never asking for more than she was given. The other staff respected her, but she was always careful not to overstep. Every year, I saw the lines on her face deepen—the weight she carried for me.