Chapter 1: Waking Up With Secrets

Dad somehow landed in this era from the 1940s, and one morning he just woke up and, just like that, could read minds.

It’s the kind of thing you’d laugh off if someone told you over coffee and cherry pie at a roadside diner—but here we are. Dad’s voice still has that crisp, old-fashioned snap, and sometimes he’ll just stop mid-sentence, like he’s tuning in to a radio only he can hear. The world flipped upside down on him, but somehow, he’s the one who ended up with the edge.

And me? I’m a 21st-century kid, and it’s like I’ve got Google wired straight into my brain—any answer, any time.

Not as cool as it sounds, honestly. Sometimes it feels like my head’s a library with just one magic book—no getting lost down Wikipedia holes, no guessing games, just the answer, plain as day, whether I want it or not. I kinda miss being able to wonder sometimes.

We’re both stuck in this old world—let’s call it Liberty America (and no, not the Civil War Union, but something different, a place that feels like postwar D.C. mashed up with a country that never quite caught up to the present). To keep this place from crashing and burning like the worlds we came from, Dad and I joined forces: inventing things, building roads, swearing to turn Liberty America into the strongest country out there.

Picture this: streets echoing with marching bands and parades, the air thick with coal smoke and fresh-cut hay, big band music blaring from the radio right alongside the crackle of protest speeches. We’re not exactly in the past, but it sure feels like history’s breathing down our necks every single day.

The second I opened my eyes, there was Mom—her face twisted in pain, barreling straight for the massive stone fireplace in our living room.

It was one of those scenes that burns itself into your brain forever: sunlight slicing through the dusty air onto the old braided rug, the mantle clock ticking way too loud, Mom’s slippers scraping the floor as she charged at the hearth, her face set with determination. Even half-awake, I knew something was horribly wrong.

My head was spinning—no time to think. Instinct just took over: I scrambled off the rug and threw myself in front of the hearth.

No time for speeches or heroics, just pure reflex. My socks slid across the wood, and I barely managed to wedge myself between her and the cold stone. The air was thick with the smell of last night’s ashes.

Mom’s head collided with my chest. I let out a grunt, the shock jolting me fully awake.

The hit rattled my ribs and knocked the wind out of me. For a second, I thought I might black out, but the pain was sharp enough to snap the haze from my mind.

God, this is just like last time... just like the scene from my last life, when Mom killed herself.

The memory hit me like a punch. I remembered her body crumpling, the horror on everyone’s faces. Too slow, too lost in my own misery—I’d never gotten over the guilt. I never wanted to see that again. Seeing her now, alive and trembling, I promised myself I’d never let it happen.

Man, with that much force, no wonder she died instantly!

I could almost hear that sickening thud from before, echoing in my bones. My chest ached with more than just bruises.

I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling the ache deep in my bones. My mind spun, replaying every detail—my pulse thundering, panic clawing at my insides.

Clutching my stomach, I doubled over, a raw cry ripping from my throat—pain and panic tangled together.

The sound tore out of me, wild and unplanned—a real, guttural yelp. Everyone turned to stare, the room spinning as I tried to catch my breath.

Mom hadn’t expected me to stop her like that. When she saw me, sweating and hunched over, her face went pale as a sheet, worry etched in every line. She kept blaming herself, whispering, "I’m so sorry," her voice barely there.

Her hands fluttered, not sure where to land, hovering over my shoulders as if she wanted to fix everything but couldn’t. The sight twisted something in my chest.

My older brother, the golden boy of the family, stood nearby—outwardly looking concerned, but his eyes were cold, distant, calculating.

He was the picture of the perfect son—arms crossed, jaw set, showing just enough concern for anyone watching. But I caught the glint in his eyes, measuring, always sizing things up. It made my skin crawl.

I glanced up at Dad. His face was stern, totally unreadable.

He stood stiff as a board, hands clasped behind his back like some old army officer. Only his eyes moved, darting between me, Mom, and my brother—no telling what he was thinking.

Feeling uneasy, I knelt fast, anxiety twisting in my gut.

My knees hit the floorboards with a solid thud, palms pressed tight, praying for anything to break the tension. The air was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

I’ve actually come back to life again! For real.

The realization hit me all over again—like ice water down my spine. I was really, truly alive, not just dreaming or stuck in some memory loop.

I’ve lived three lives now. Three! The weight of it all pressed down on me, each life leaving its own mark.

Sometimes it felt like too much—like I was carrying around a thousand years of regret and hope. But right now, all that mattered was Mom was still here.

In my first life, I was a college student in the 21st century, going to UCLA. I died unexpectedly while saving a kid who’d fallen into a river at summer camp.

I still remembered the chill of the water, the panic, the way my lungs burned. They say no good deed goes unpunished, right?

When I woke up, I’d become the family screw-up—the ninth son of the Whitakers in Liberty America. The name on my lips wasn’t even mine, but I knew I’d been given another shot.