With drinks in hand, Michael pads across the floor, handing a martini glass filled with orangeish liquid to me. The proportions are off; mine has about a third more liquid than his. He grins sheepishly.

“I’m still getting the hang of this stuff,” he admits. The hesitation on my face as he raises his glass in a silent salute makes him pause. “Not a fan of orange liquor? Look, I get it. Took me a while to get used to it, too, but I promise it’s amazing.”

I push my lips into a thin line to keep the secret from escaping accidentally. What do I tell him? That I’ve never drunk alcohol before? That starting now, right after my transplant, probably isn’t the best time to do it? But if it’ll calm my nerves so that I can control them enough to ride this thing out…

“Cheers.”

The drink goes down smoothly, once I get past the initial burn. The sugary sweetness helps, and within three gulps, my drink is almost gone, while he’s already refilled his halfway. Michael rubs at his bottom lip with his thumb in a slow-motion move that I’m one hundred percent sure he didn’t mean to be seductive but one hundred percent is. He then shakes his head, blowing air out of his lips obnoxiously.

“Note to self: I hate cognac,” Michael says, putting the glass down.

Why did he invite me in? I’m a mess. I’m spouting nonsense about the future. Maybe Michael is just a super friendly type of guy. Or he just isn’t scared.

For the millionth time, I think this has to be an illusion or a dream or something.

But it feels so real. The smell of disinfectant lingers softly in the air, but it’s there. The house doesn’t have a speck of dust in it; it feels like some old-timey replica made for a museum to show what life was like in the sixties.

“Shit,” I say, seeing the tracks of mud from my shoes. “I should have taken these off.”

Michael waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t sweat it. You’re lucky. Parents and brother are out of town for the week.”

“And the dog too?”

Michael smirks. “That tells you where I rank in the family dynamics, yeah? I’ll clean it myself—or just take the blame myself. They’ll accept that.” He nods his head toward the picture I was looking at before. “Screwup Mikey. That’s what my pops calls me. This will be par for the course. You said you’re looking for the Orange Line, right? Shame, really. I’m going to miss you when you’re gone.”

“Yeah, I am. Wait, pause and go back. What do you mean when I’m gone?”