I step back just in time as he peels off, driving rapidly away. My body feels heavy, rooted in place, forcing me to watch as his taillights disappear and the street falls silent, the only sound the thumping in my head.

By the time I step into the house, he’s halfway down the street, and Dad’s halfway finished with his first question.

“Absolutely not,” I reply.

“But—”

“No.”

“Andre, I’m your father.”

“Right, and not my PO,” I remind him, heading up the stairs two at a time. “I’m not talking about my date with my dad.”

“So, it was a date!”

“You knew that!”

“Right, but him thinking it’s a date and you thinking it’s a date are two very different things.”

Standing at the top of the steps, I scoff at him, audibly. “I’m going to call Isobel.”

“Oh, so you want to talk—”

“Yes, I do,” I say, closing the door and leaning against it, like putting my weight on it will keep him out if he decides to enter.

But Isobel isn’t the person I want to talk to.

“Michael,” I whisper.

I look down at my hands, the front sides and the back. There’s nothing different about them. No blurring at the corner of my eyes, just a vibration that makes me feel like I’m a living, breathing tuning fork.

It doesn’t scare me. If anything, it’s welcome. The faint sound of the CNN report Dad’s watching downstairs blends with sounds of the 1970s and echoes in my ears. It feels like I’m walking from one room to the next but stopping at the doorway, waiting to decide if I’m going to make the jump.

And though there’s no fear, there’s pain. Sharp, warm, hot pain in the center of my gut.

“Shit,” I hiss, doubling over and falling to the floor on my knees. When they make contact, it’s like a ripple is sent out. The room morphs, shifting in phases between my room and what looks like a party in a house that’s not my own. They flicker back and forth—2021, 1970, 1969—like I can see Michael’s timeline washing over me in blurred images. The pain continues to grow, spooling out and taking over my whole body.

Focus, I tell myself. Focus on this room. Focus on Michael. Focus only on that. Push through the pain.

Seconds feel like hours before the pain, like a rubber band, snaps back and disappears. When I open my eyes, though, I’m no longer in my bedroom; I’m in Michael’s. He’s in bed, shirtless, sitting up, his hair a mess.

“Nineteen seventy,” he says, without me asking. “Only a few months later than the last time you were here.”