Finally, I sit up. Three things run through my mind at the same time, but I do my best to order them. I’m a scientist-in-training, like my dad always says—no matter how much it annoys me—so it’s time I think like one.

One, I’m alive. That’s clear, and it’s a good first step.

Two, my vitals are fine—pulse is rapid (but that’s to be expected), no wounds, my scar looks the same, completely healed. I even pinch myself to make sure it’s real. Get rid of all shadows of doubt.

Three, I need to analyze what could have caused this. Could it have been a hallucination? Maybe, but it felt too real. A side effect of medication? Perhaps, but I did my research—so did Mom and Dad—and none of the drugs had these types of effects. Was it a dream? Why did I remember it so vividly if it was? Could I be having a mental breakdown? Possibly.

Or, it could be the fifth option: I just freakin’ time traveled.

“Andre!”

I press my feet against the floor tentatively. This is definitely my reality. This is my world, and for right now, that’s all that matters.

Mom and Dad are at the breakfast table when I finally make it down. Cinnamon rolls, freshly squeezed orange juice, and half a dozen other treats decorate the table.

“Are you practicing for Thanksgiving already?” I ask, teasing. Mom rolls her eyes, but she has a bashful expression on her face.

“I told her not to cook so much,” Dad says, ribbing her. “We’re not going to eat all this.”

“Hush,” she scolds him. “Your son got a clean bill of health. He’s a cancer survivor. That’s big. The least we can do is—”

“Give him diabetes?” Dad interrupts, poking a pancake with a fork. “How much syrup did you…”

Mom gives him that look. We both know the look, and he shuts up. Dad does his best, bless his heart, to eat healthily and to instill those values in us. Mom and I are just too addicted to sugar.

“Thanks…it’s…perfect?” And I mean it, which is a surprise. The pancakes are, shockingly, perfectly fluffy. The cinnamon rolls have the perfect amount of warmth and gooey sugar. And the fruit? Fresh and in season. And for the first time in a very long time, I feel…hungry.

She’s been practicing, I think. Probably for this exact moment when I came home with a clean bill of health.

Mom beams with pride at her meal. “You’re surprised, aren’t you?”

I nod, my mouth full of food.

“It is pretty perfect, right?” she says. “Your old mom has some tricks still.”

“You’re most definitely not old.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re my son.”

“And because it’s the truth!”