He backed away from the door and slowly walked to the janitor’s closet. When he peered inside, his stomach dropped to his feet.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Because as Héctor stood there, he had to accept what he saw before him.

The closet had changed. Again.

He couldn’t even call it a closet anymore. The room before Héctor was enormous, bigger than his family’s entire previous home in San Francisco. Bulbs set into the ceiling illuminated a full entertainment center. A large couch, one that looked terribly comfortable, sat on one side of the room opposite an actual refrigerator. There was a small coffee table between the television and the couch, and on it sat the controllers for . . . a Nintendo Switch?

Nope. Dreaming. He was definitely dreaming.

He pinched his skin.

It just stung a little. Which made sense, because that was what pinching did. Why was that a thing? Had anyone ever gotten out of a dream by pinching themselves?

Héctor made his way to the fridge, and curiosity burned in him. Why a refrigerator? He pulled it open and there, on the top shelf, was a large plastic pitcher with a familiar liquid inside it.

No. No way.

He let his backpack fall to the floor and reached inside the fridge to grab the pitcher.

Pulled the lid off. Smelled it.

It smelled like . . .

He turned around once more. Now there was a small table behind him, with two chairs on opposite ends, and a single clean glass sitting in the middle of it.

It had appeared out of nowhere.

“Yo, what is this?” he said, his voice soft, disbelieving.

He reached out. Touched the glass. It was solid, a little chilled, and when he picked it up, it certainly looked like a real glass. So . . . it had to be real.

So Héctor just went with it. He poured the liquid into the glass and hesitated for only a second before he took a sip.

Smooth. Creamy. That hint of cinnamon hit his tongue, and he knew this was . . .

This was . . .

. . . his abuela’s horchata??? It tasted exactly the same! But how? How could this drink be here, right now, in this room?

Scratch that, Héctor thought. How can this room be here?

He took another sip. It still tasted the same. There was no trick here: This was absolutely the horchata he had come to know and love.

Héctor shrugged and drank the whole glass down. Then he poured himself another, drank that down, and then his stomach rumbled again.

Ugh, I need some actual food. But where would he—