If you looked close enough, however, there were plenty of signs that people took pride in every way they could. A small but perfectly manicured flower garden in an otherwise wild yard. A car detailed and polished to a showroom sheen, in absolute defiance of the dent in its side.

In my world, Leo’s parents had rebuilt their porch, but here it sagged from the weight of fifty summers. And yet above it, hanging from the awning, were dozens of beautiful wind chimes tinkling and twinkling in the night. Yeah, this was Leo’s home.

“Where I come from,” I told him, “your mom has a side business making those.”

“Yeah, she makes ’em,” Leo said. “No business though. She sells them at church bazaars sometimes, but mostly she gives ’em as gifts.” Then he added, “Wish she’d give away more—those damn things keep me up all night.”

Leo’s mom greeted me at the door a bit awkwardly. “Ash Bowman,” she said, “pleased to meet you. I hope you like mac and cheese.”

“And not the store-bought stuff,” Leo was quick to say. “The real thing—from scratch.”

I smiled as I shook her hand. “I always love your mac and cheese, Mrs. Johnson.” Then I gave a nervous little cough. “I mean . . . I always love homemade, and I’m sure yours is something special.”

It was a fair enough save, although Leo gave me a sideways glance.

“Leo tells me you’re encouraging him back into football. Good to see a prominent family like yours taking an interest in others.”

I wanted to tell her that it wasn’t my family, it was just me—but that would have been petty. “Talent deserves attention,” I told her instead. “Glad I can give some.”

She glanced at Leo, glowing with just enough pride to be below the embarrassment threshold, before going back into the kitchen.

In my world, Mrs. Johnson was the head of human resources at a local hospital. According to Leo, she still worked at the hospital, but here it was in food service, wheeling meals to patients. Minimum wage, which here was single digits. There were pictures of Angela everywhere. She looked the same as I remembered. Except that she was gone. Leo’s father was in a lot of pictures, but wasn’t present that night. “He works the night shift,” Leo told me. I didn’t ask doing what.

“The Blue Demons having a good year?” Leo’s mom asked as the three of us sat down to dinner.

“I guess,” I told her. “Two and one. Still too early to say.”

I dug in. There was no lobster in the mac and cheese; it had crawfish instead, which to me tasted exactly the same. Comfort-food perfection. I complimented Mrs. Johnson on it—but then Leo said something that sent me spiraling.

“Hey, maybe your family could use a part-time cook.”