Many of the changes Mom and Dad made when we renovated it erased the old house. But some things are still here. Like the slight dip you have to walk over when you move from the front hallway to the living room. Or the strange half-foot extension that makes passing through the living room and into the kitchen not as seamless as it should be. I know it so well, inside and out. At its core, this is still my house.

The guy weaves through the house with an uncanny familiarity that feels…violating. It takes me a few moments of silence to figure out why.

It’s because I move the same way when I’m home. It’s the same level of relaxation, of comfort that comes from being in your own home. It’s the way your muscles relax and that breath you’ve been holding without knowing it is finally released when you get home. It’s the subconscious feeling of safety. He has it. And I don’t right now, but then again, I think I’m losing my mind. How can it be 1969? The only logical explanation is that it’s a dream…or a hallucination. I’m trying not to freak out—trying to ride out whatever this is, but I can feel the bile rising in the back of my throat as I try to fight down the panic.

“So we have water, pop, Tang…” He lists off drinks, his body half concealed by the fridge. He doesn’t tell me to sit, but I lean against a bar stool, resting my arms on the cool countertop. Why is he so calm when he clearly has a lunatic in his house?

“No one here calls it pop.”

“That’s because you’re all wrong,” he says, without looking up. “Which do you want?”

Instead of answering him, I take everything in. From the corner of my eye, I see him looking at me.

“You look like you need something stronger. Sidecar? Sidecar.”

“Sure, whatever.”

We are both silent while he makes the drink. I get off the stool and walk over to the hearth. There’s no fireplace in my house anymore, just a wall where the TV hangs. But the pictures on the mantel are cute. The guy with his family—an older brother, two parents, a dog—except they all look younger. Especially him.

“An all-American family,” I mutter. “Did I end up in Leave It to Beaver? All you’re missing is the white picket fence.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing,” I say, looking up, seeing him pour the drinks. “Andre,” I blurt out. “Andre Cobb.”

“Hmm?”

“My name.”

“Nice to meet you Andre Cobb from Boston,” he teases. “I’m Michael. Michael Gray, since we’re giving our full government names.”