But as I open my mouth to scream out the stereotypical teenage battle cry—an elongated Mom!—my fingers brush up against what should be a checked bedspread.

And instead, they touch grass.

Cold, wet grass.

Two

The grass is refreshing. Slightly wet but cool. It’s most definitely not my bed.

I lie there for at least five seconds, like an idiot, with my palms pressed against the soft, chilly blades, looking up at endless black sky that’s replaced the ugly off-white ceiling I’ve stared at for almost my whole life. These five seconds are the most peaceful I’ve had in the past six months.

And then I realize something’s wrong.

I sit up quickly and jump to my feet faster than I should. The ground rushes up and the world spins.

My eyes finally adjust to the darkness, and I’m able to come up with two possible explanations for my change in location.

One, somehow I’ve gotten up from bed without realizing it, and I’m standing on my street, the same street where I learned how to ride a bike and parallel park, where I almost had my first kiss, and where I broke my arm in seventh grade.

Two, somehow I’ve gotten up from bed without realizing it, and I’m standing in a twilight-zone version of my street.

And, shockingly, option two seems more likely, because something is really off.

Mr. Cameron’s house looks…cleaner than it ever has. The blue paneling is a brighter blue than I can remember. And Ms. Cunningham’s house across the street? There’s no fountain there, and I know there should be, because the homeowners’ association had a field day debating whether she should be allowed to have it. And, of course, there are two cars in Mr. Evans’s driveway, suspiciously retro-looking ones, when I know there should only be one, since his wife left him last year (but he doesn’t want to talk about it).

But, most importantly, the house at 2405 Stuart Drive, my house, isn’t my house anymore. It’s a house, someone else’s house. Someone with a penchant for wind chimes.

And…the addition is missing.

“What the actual fuck,” I whisper.

The cul-de-sac is familiar, but the houses, the cars, they are all…different.

“Okay, okay, Andre,” I tell myself quickly. “Deep breaths, that’s it. Breathe. You know how to do that. Breathing still makes sense, right?”

But my breaths come out shallow, despite how hard I try to breathe in for five seconds, hold for three, and breathe out for seven. I read that somewhere. But it feels like I can’t get enough air, no matter how hard I try. Like I’m actually suffocating on oxygen. If that’s even possible.