No, not standing—sitting in the middle of the living room.

Claire doesn’t even seem phased when she looks up from the mantel where she’s leaning.

“Welcome back,” she says, checking her watch. She walks over and grabs my hand, helping me stand before dusting me off, much like a mother would. “You were gone roughly three minutes, by the way. I imagine your friend Isobel is going to be coming in very soon, so we don’t have much time. You should start wearing a watch—it’s going to be your most valuable tool as a traveler. How was the trip?”

I stand there dumbstruck. It takes me a few seconds to get my bearings. To shake off the jet lag of traveling through time and space. There’s a dull, almost mistakable throb in the pit of my stomach, but I think that’s just nerves. Besides, I have bigger things to worry about.

“Wait, wait, three minutes? How…”

“How can that be?” Claire finishes for me. “Rule of thumb. One hour whenever you travel is one minute in your current time period. It’s a simple rule to remember. Not one of the three cardinal rules, but…”

She keeps talking, but her words fade out and sound fuzzy as my mind seems to disassociate from my body.

My name is Andre Cobb. I’m seventeen years old, born and raised in Boston, Massachusetts. I’m a cancer survivor and a student at St. Clements Academy. I’m the son of Jennifer Cobb and Daniel Cobb, and the most unique thing about me?

“I’m a time traveler.”

Claire grins brightly. Her hands find their way to my shoulders, and she squeezes. “That you are.”

Holy fucking shit.

Nine

Mom and Dad were already pissed when Isobel and I came home late. Not as pissed as Isobel was when I wouldn’t share any information with her about what had happened inside the McIntyres’ house, but close.

“Where were you?”

“Out with Isobel.”

“Where did you go?”

“The McIntyres’.”

They pause, confused.

“They’re the family who gave me my liver,” I say, clarifying.

Mom’s eyes grow wide, and Dad spits up the drink he’s sipping.

“That’s not…” Dad starts but pauses.

“Protocol,” Mom says. “That’s not protocol.”

“They reached out.”

“How did they find your number?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did you say?”

I shrug. “They just wanted to check in, see how I was doing. I thought I owed it to them, considering.” I point to my liver. “You know.”

Mom’s face goes on a journey of expressions: frustration, then confusion, then indecision, before finally resting on understanding.

“I told them thank you,” I say. “They’re nice people, Mom.”

“I’m sure they are,” she says in a way that’s not fully condescending, but not fully convincing either. She’s still processing everything that’s happened. We’re not so different in that regard.