“I want to find a cure for it. That’s why I want to become a doctor. I’ll go to an Ivy for undergrad, then Harvard for medical school and my doctorate. New York for my postdoc. And we’ll see what happens there.”

“No breaks?” Michael asks, obviously surprised.

“I don’t have time for that.”

Michael sits up. “Don’t stop now. You have your whole life planned out. Why stop ten years from now? Why not keep going? How about twenty years from now? Or thirty?”

My chest tightens, only for a moment, in a twinge of annoyance that I know will spread like thick, hot lava if I don’t tame it.

“What would you prefer I do?” I ask. “Flap around in the wind like you? See what happens?”

“There’s a space between trying to control everything, which yields no control, and just leaving it up to luck. You’re young, Andre! You’re…”

“Don’t,” I warn. And before he can ask, I add, “Don’t tell me that I’m young and that I have my whole life ahead of me. Don’t act like my parent.”

“That wasn’t at all what I was going to say.”

“Sure.” I wave my hand in a wide arc, in a “the floor is yours” sort of way.

“What I was going to say was, your life is your own. You don’t owe anyone anything. Not your parents. Not society. You can take this opportunity to live life to the fullest. So I’m here to ask you: Are you going to medical school because you want to or because your parents want you to?”

The molten hot lava inside bursts into pure white rage. How dare this guy judge me? What right does he have? How long has he known me? A few hours?

“What makes you think this isn’t what I want?”

“Maybe it is. But that’s not the vibe I get.”

Deep down, somewhere dark and damp, with locks upon locks, I know that being judged isn’t what made my hackles rise. It’s the small pilot light that Michael has stoked. The small flame he’s given life to that had been forced into silence months ago and had stayed silent. That small voice that asked, What about photography or writing or music? What about trying something new? That’s what college is for, right?

It was the voice of rebellion that I killed long ago.

The perfect quippy arrowhead of a comeback is right on the tip of my tongue. But before I can fire it, a rush of air suddenly swirls around me. Colors mix, and the ground rises up faster than it should, like I’m crashing in reverse. It happens so fast this time that I’m barely able to prepare myself for it. In a heartbeat, I’m standing back in the McIntyres’ home.