Chapter 1: The Accident That Changed Everything

When my wife found out I was seriously injured and might be paralyzed for life, she coaxed our eight-year-old son into pulling out my oxygen tube.

The fluorescent glare of the ICU ceiling flickered over us. Even through the haze of painkillers, I saw her lean close to Tyler, her voice low, sweet, like she was talking him into picking out a new toy at Walmart. My heart thudded as I watched my son—our son—reach out with trembling hands. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. I wanted to scream, to beg, but all I could do was watch, paralyzed in more ways than one. One tug, and the cold hiss of oxygen vanished, replaced by the rush of the ventilator’s alarm.

When the police arrived, she held our son in her arms and cried, saying, “He’s just a kid. How could he possibly understand? He just wanted to plug in his iPad, that’s all! He didn’t know, he’s just a kid!”

She clutched Tyler close, rocking on the edge of the bed, tears streaming down her face, mascara staining her cheeks. Her voice cracked for the officers. "He didn’t mean it. He was just trying to find an outlet for his iPad—he didn’t know what would happen. He’s only eight! Please, he’s just a little boy." The officers exchanged uneasy glances. One of them, a young Black woman with a gentle Midwestern accent, knelt by Tyler and handed him a juice box, trying to comfort him even as she scribbled notes.

The day after I died, a wealthy woman came to the hospital. She was the mother of the little girl I had saved.

She swept in, all designer heels and expensive perfume, her presence commanding the room. Her perfume hit me before her voice did—something expensive and sharp, the kind you smell in fancy department stores downtown. Even the nurses straightened up when they saw her. Her white SUV still sat double-parked in the fire lane, engine running.

When she heard I had already passed away, she immediately handed my wife a check for a million dollars for funeral expenses.

The check was thick, crisp, bearing the logo of a swanky uptown bank. She pressed it into Jenna’s palm, her voice trembling: "Your husband gave his life for my daughter. I can never repay that, but please—use this for his funeral, for anything your family needs." Even the nurses, hardened by years of tragedy, paused in silent awe.

With the check in hand, my wife couldn’t wait to call her ex-boyfriend, Eric Monroe.

Jenna’s eyes glittered with something dark as she thumbed her phone, ducking out to the hallway. The moment the elevator doors slid shut, she was already dialing. Her lips curled in a sly smile, as if she’d finally drawn a winning hand at poker.

The two of them plotted together, mutilated my body until it was unrecognizable, and then called my parents.

In the stale chill of the hospital morgue, Jenna and Eric worked quickly, gloves snapping, voices hushed. The way they covered my face, the way they tore at what was left of me—it was all clinical, almost casual, like they were stuffing a Thanksgiving turkey—except this time, it was me on the table. Then, with Eric’s arm slung around her, Jenna picked up the phone and dialed my parents’ number, her tone perfectly rehearsed, all trembling grief.

When my father saw my remains, he had a heart attack and died on the spot. My mother, overwhelmed by grief, took pills and ended her own life.

My father’s collapse was sudden—a thud against the linoleum, hands pressed to his chest, my mother’s scream echoing down the hallway. The ER team did what they could, but he was gone before they even started CPR. My mother, shrunken and hollow, drifted through the motions of paperwork and police questions until, that night, she poured out a bottle of her heart meds and drifted off, leaving behind a note folded under my childhood baseball glove.

My wife and Eric took the enormous sum of money and bought a new house. My son ran into Eric’s arms and exclaimed, “Now I can finally call you Dad out in the open!”

Their real estate agent snapped a photo of them in front of a shiny new house in the suburbs—white siding, swing set in the yard, fresh mulch on the flower beds. Tyler, his backpack slung over one shoulder, grinned and barreled into Eric’s arms, shouting, “Now I can finally call you Dad out in the open!” Jenna beamed for the camera, her hand resting on Eric’s chest, perfectly manicured nails flashing in the sunlight. I wanted to reach through the lens and tear the smile from her face. Instead, I was just a ghost, watching my whole life get deleted in real time.

Turns out, the son I cherished all these years wasn’t even mine.

The words from the paternity test echoed in my mind like static. "Probability of paternity: 0.00%". I read it over and over, hoping the numbers would change, that some glitch in the universe would put my name back where it belonged. A whole childhood of bedtime stories, scraped knees, Little League games—gone, replaced by this cold, brutal fact. I’d loved him, raised him, and none of it mattered.

Hovering above, I was consumed by a hatred so intense I nearly lost myself.

From somewhere above—somewhere outside myself—I saw it all. My rage boiled, a storm twisting through me, almost enough to scorch everything clean. For a moment, I thought I’d drift away, lost to the anger forever.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day of the car accident.

A cold shock ran through me, like I’d just been dunked in ice water. My body jerked, heart pounding, as sunlight and traffic noise crashed back into my ears. Everything snapped back into focus: sunlight slanting through maple leaves, the distant whine of a siren. I blinked, feeling the ache of my body, the weight of the breakfast sandwich warming my palm. It was all here again, down to the scuff on my sneaker.