Chapter 1: A New Life, A New Wife

On the day everything changed, Charlie Morgan lounged under his backyard maple, sipping cheap whiskey and trading tall tales with Sam. The backyard smelled like fresh-cut grass and the last wisps of someone’s barbecue drifting over the fence. Sunlight flickered across his battered porch. After Sam headed home—Charlie giving him a friendly slap and one last joke—Charlie poured himself a few more drinks, letting the warmth blur the edges of a long week. He got tipsy and headed to bed early, the sound of crickets lulling him toward sleep.

Somewhere between dreaming and waking, a playful but insistent voice cut through the haze: “Charlie, Charlie, get up and sell breakfast sandwiches!” It rang out like someone calling from the kitchen before school, bright and determined.

Charlie blinked awake and found himself staring at a beautiful woman. She wore faded jeans and a plain T-shirt, but she had the effortless appeal of a girl from a Levi’s ad—hip cocked, messy hair falling over one shoulder, pure American charm and sass.

She was exactly the kind of wife Charlie always liked: the sort to argue about baseball in the living room or laugh with him at a backyard cookout.

“Am I dreaming?” he muttered, voice thick with whiskey and disbelief.

He pinched his cheek, hard. The sting jolted him, sharp as a splash of cold water on a hungover morning. His pulse hammered in his ears. For a split second, he wondered if he was dead—or worse, crazy. But the dresser’s edge bit into his palm, solid and real.

Only then did Charlie realize this was no dream. He’d woken up in the body of Dan Walker—thanks to the collective mischief of a million Reddit users, apparently. The room spun; he caught himself on the dresser, staring at unfamiliar, calloused hands.

Just his luck—couldn’t catch a break in one life, and now here he was, thrown into another by a bunch of pranksters online. At least they’d thrown in a gorgeous wife. For a second, Charlie almost wanted to thank them, but snorted instead.

Charlie tried to sound casual as he asked, “Honey, what’d you just call me out to sell?”

Jenny, brushing her hair in the bathroom mirror, shot back, “Charlie, you forget your own job now? C’mon, the morning rush is waiting!” She caught his gaze in the mirror, half-annoyed, half-amused, like she was used to his odd mornings.

Charlie glanced around. Sure enough, it was a breakfast sandwich shop—simple, but tidy. Grease stains smudged the counter, a coffee pot hissed and steamed, and the air was thick with the scent of bacon fat. He decided to push Jenny a little, just to see if this was all real.

“Honey, I’m not feeling it today. If you want me to go, answer three questions for me,” he said, flashing a crooked grin, buying time to get his bearings.

Jenny, tying her hair up, dabbed on a bit of faded blush and shot him a look. “What’s with you? Fine, ask away! Not just three, even three hundred—I’ll answer them all.” Her tone was exasperated, but her eyes sparkled with a challenge.

Charlie grinned, secretly pleased. “Who am I? Where is this place?” He tried to keep it light, but a nervous edge crept in.

Jenny sighed, “You’re Dan Walker from Maple Heights, owner of this shop, and my husband. This is our home. You want me to write it down for you?”

Charlie pressed, “Do I have any relatives or friends?”

Jenny rolled her eyes. “Didn’t Ben, your brother, just leave last month for sheriff business? Are you messing with me?”

Charlie’s spirits lifted—a brother in law enforcement meant food and safety weren’t a worry. In a small town, that was better than insurance.

He asked eagerly, “Where’s my brother now?”

Jenny frowned. “Didn’t he leave last month on official business?” She shook her head, smoothed her clothes, and headed downstairs. Her footsteps creaked on the old wood, oddly comforting.

Charlie dressed quickly. The clothes reeked of kitchen grease and fryer smoke. He wrinkled his nose, muttering about needing stronger soap—or a vacation from bacon.

He pocketed Jenny’s sewing scissors—just in case. You never knew when a little sharpness might come in handy in a strange world.

Downstairs, Jenny had packed the case with practiced hands—paper-wrapped sandwiches, a battered thermos of coffee, everything ready to go. Morning light spilled through the window.

Charlie pointed at the case, then himself. “Me?” he asked, half-hoping she’d say no.

“Who else?” Jenny quipped, arching an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips.

So, with a helpless look, Charlie slung the case over his shoulder and stepped outside, the screen door rattling behind him. A scruffy little boy spotted him and yelled, “Dan, why so late today?”

Charlie squinted, confused. “You know me?”

It was Tyler, the apple seller. He grumbled, “We go to market together every day—you sell sandwiches, I sell apples. You alright?” Tyler eyed him with suspicion.

Charlie tamped down irritation, decided to get the lay of the land, and offered a half-smile.

Tyler was a chatterbox, babbling all the way. After learning the basics of Dan Walker’s life, Charlie ditched the sandwich case and ducked into a bookstore, soaking up the scent of paper and ink, comforted by familiar titles.

He chatted up storytellers and pen-sellers, leaving Tyler grumbling. He eavesdropped on local gossip: poker wins, lost cows, which preacher was running for council.

By sundown, Charlie had the lay of the land: it was the 1920s Midwest, Warren Harding was president, and the local diner was a hotbed of political complaints.

The Civil War was long past. His son Peter had become a big shot, but a crook named Simon Easton stole the company. Townsfolk muttered about it over black coffee, and Easton’s “Let them eat oatmeal” became a running joke.

Charlie planned to learn more about the Gilded Age—maybe grab a biography of Andrew Carnegie from the library.

He was now Dan Walker, breakfast sandwich man of Maple Heights, with a brother Ben who’d fought a bear bare-handed and now worked for the sheriff. The story was practically legend.

He mapped out the local big shots and the county judge—old money with the power to make or break fortunes.

Back home, the sun painted the clapboard houses gold. A dog barked in the distance. Charlie hadn’t sold a single sandwich—not that he minded.

Jenny didn’t scold him. She poured hot water, called him to wash up and eat. The kitchen was warm, her humming familiar.

Dinner was mac and cheese and leftover chicken. Charlie ate with gusto. Afterward, as Jenny tidied up, he asked, “Honey, do we have any money at home?”

Jenny, stacking plates, shot him a look. “Since when do you call me that? You never did before.” But she was almost smiling.

Charlie leaned back, grinning. “Times change, honey. But you didn’t answer.”

Jenny wiped her hands on her apron, squared her shoulders, and said, “We saved a few dollars these last two years—for your brother’s wedding, remember? Oh, and Mrs. Watson came by about quilt patterns.”

“Bring the money here,” Charlie said, maybe too abruptly. He softened, offering a gentle smile.

Jenny hesitated—Dan never ordered her around. But something in his eyes made her pause. She fetched a wooden box, bundled bills wrapped in cloth inside.

Charlie counted it carefully and let out a self-mocking laugh. Back in his old life, he’d never worried about a dollar. Now, every bill felt heavy, like it might be the last.

Jenny almost stopped him, but let her hand fall—after all, it was his. She turned away, biting her lip.

Charlie headed out with the money, heart pounding, the streetlights flickering on.

After Jenny finished her chores, she sat at the table, thinking about how she’d accidentally dropped something on Simon King that afternoon. She worried it might come back to haunt her, though she couldn’t help remembering how handsome he was.

Before long, Charlie returned—with new clothes for himself and a bold, beautiful dress for Jenny. The price tags fluttered. She pressed the fabric to her cheek, torn between delight and dread. Two years of saving—gone in a single afternoon.

“Honey, do you like it?” Charlie called, spinning the dress playfully.

Jenny’s voice shook. “Charlie, did you spend all our savings?”

Charlie looked unconcerned. “You worry too much. Tomorrow I’ll bring you a pile of cash.” He winked.

Jenny scoffed, “Charlie, have you lost your mind, or are you possessed?”

Charlie stayed calm. “Don’t be angry, honey. The night’s short—let’s rest.”

Jenny lay awake, worrying about the neighbors and how to explain this to Mrs. Watson. Even in frustration, she moved quietly, considerate as ever.

Charlie, on the other hand, slept like a king, dreaming of bright lights and applause.