The thrill of victory proved to be a potent lure. For the next two days, the biting December air, still present on December 17, 1895, felt less sharp, the Morris Park Racecourse less daunting. George and Michael, now partners in a clandestine venture, returned to the track, though to different racecourses each day. The heady odds of 6:1 on a rank outsider were gone, replaced by more conservative 1:1, 2:1, and a few 3:1 payouts. They didn't bet everything on one race, but spread their wagers across several, in the range of thirty and forty dollars per race.
Over six races in two days, Michael's uncanny knack for picking winners continued. By the end of their three-day betting spree (including the first day at Morris Park), he had amassed a staggering $1021. George, emboldened by Michael's success and placing his own smaller, more cautious bets, also saw his luck turn, earning an impressive $280. In 1895, a typical family's yearly income in the United States was around $650. Michael, a six-year-old, had earned more than that in three days.
But good days, especially those built on secrets, rarely last. As they approached the small, two-story house, somewhat dilapidated but still in good condition, a chill that had nothing to do with the December air crept up George's spine. On the porch, John, Mary, and Elizabeth, George's wife, stood like a silent, formidable jury. One look at their faces, especially Elizabeth's stern gaze, and George knew. He was caught.
"George Kingston," Elizabeth's voice, usually so warm, was now a chilly steel. "Where, pray tell, have you and Michael been for the past three days?"
John, ever the more direct one, stepped forward, his serious brow furrowed. "And what in the name of all that's sensible have you been teaching this boy?" He pointed a reproving finger at Michael, who, for once, looked less like a shrewd tactician and more like a nervous lamb.
"Now, Father, Mother, Mom, it's not like that!" Michael piped up, trying to intervene, his loyalties firmly with George.
But all three adults descended. "He's a child, George!" Mary exclaimed, stepping forward to gently pull the boy behind her. "George should have known better!"
"Absolutely!" Elizabeth chimed in, fixing George with a glare that could curdle milk. "Gambling! And with a child! What were you thinking, George?"
George stood helpless, shrinking under their combined disapproval. He opened his mouth, then closed it. There was no good excuse.
John crossed his arms, his voice dropping to a low, grave tone. "How much did you lose, George?"
George swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "We didn't lose, John."
John raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise in his steady gaze. "Oh? So, you managed to break even then?"
"No," George said, almost a whisper. "We… we won."
Elizabeth, her anger momentarily replaced by confusion, stepped closer, curiously. "Won? How much, George?"
Before George could answer, Michael, bursting from behind Mary, his small chest puffed out with pride, declared, "One thousand twenty-one dollars! Dad won some too!"
A stunned silence fell. John, Mary, and Elizabeth stared, wide-eyed, at the exuberant six-year-old. Not because of the money, not entirely. John was a self-made man, having come from nothing. His mother died giving birth to George, and their father soon after left them. John had raised George, taking every job imaginable to make ends meet. He started his brokerage company, Kingston Inc., and incorporated it on the day Michael was born a gesture of hope and a legacy for the future. Before the devastating Panic of 1893, his company had employed fifteen people, and his personal worth had approached a quarter of a million dollars.
(To put that in perspective, a quarter of a million dollars in 1893 would be equivalent to approximately $8.5 million in 2025.)
The financial crisis of 1893 had brought his world crashing down. Stocks once deemed unshakeable had crumbled, and John had been left to shoulder the losses of his clients. Unlike many others, John was a man of unwavering integrity. He had personally assured his clients of the stability of their investments and felt honor-bound to cover their losses himself. He possessed the resilience to rebuild; his clients, though shaken, still trusted him. However, the market remained sluggish, a shadow of its former vibrancy. John yearned to restore Kingston Inc. to its former prominence. Their current savings of $6,500 would sustain a frugal existence for years, but John's ambition stretched beyond mere survival; he wanted to leave a lasting mark. Every member of their household shared this quiet determination. Yet, the revelation that such a significant sum had been won at the racetrack, and by his young nephew Michael, left him genuinely and profoundly shocked.
George, seeing their disbelief, began to explain Michael's extraordinary gift, recounting the uncanny predictions and the impossible wins.
John looked at Michael, then back at George, a thoughtful glint in his eyes. "Don't take him to the tracks again, George."
"But, John," George began, "it's a waste of Michael's gift!"
John chuckled softly, a rare, dry sound that held a hint of something more. "Sometimes, George, you can be remarkably short-sighted. There is a far more suitable way to utilize Michael's... talent, if his gift works as I think it does."
George looked at his brother, a slow understanding beginning to dawn in his eyes. He couldn't yet decipher the specifics of John's thoughts, but for the first time in many long months, a genuine spark of hope ignited within him.
*****
Michael's eyes fluttered open, the soft grey light of a December morning filtering through the curtains of his small bedroom. For a moment, the edges of a dream lingered—a vivid tapestry of Dean's struggle, survival, and quiet joys that now felt strangely familiar. It was always like this. Every night, as he drifted off to sleep, Michael slipped into another life, becoming Dean, an orphan who lived in a small, underdeveloped country. Michael experienced Dean's life in fragmented parts, like a series of vivid vignettes, yet he understood that he was Dean at different stages of life, from a terrified toddler to a resourceful youth.
Last night, he had been Dean, no older than seven, sheltering from a sudden monsoon beneath a makeshift awning, his stomach tight with hunger. He remembered the fierce determination to keep his meager belongings dry, the intense relief when he managed to trade a scrap of metal for a piece of stale bread. He had learned to survive entirely on his own from a shockingly young age. He had lived through Dean's desperate search for shelter in the bustling, often unforgiving city streets and the profound, soul-deep satisfaction of finding an elderly woman who offered him a warm bowl of gruel and a moment of genuine kindness.
That entire experience of deprivation and loneliness showed Michael how truly precious a family was. He treasured his family in this life with a fierce devotion, a gratitude born from experiencing life without one. In a strange way Michael felt like having two sets of devoted parents in this life, compensating for the hardships of the other. This constant influx of Dean's hard-won lessons—the value of resources, the critical importance of foresight, and the brutal reality of consequence—had fundamentally altered Michael.
It was this constant influx of Dean's life, this other set of memories and feelings, that made him different. He understood things quicker, his questions were often surprisingly insightful, and he possessed a quiet confidence that often surprised the adults around him. He had matured early, burdened with an understanding of life's true stakes that a six-year-old in America should never possess. Yet, he kept it locked within himself, this vast library of shared experiences, forcing himself to behave as a curious, sometimes silly, six-year-old boy to avoid his parents' suspicion and, most importantly, not to worry them with his strange, wonderful, and sometimes frightening truth.
This morning, as the lingering images of Dean's memories faded, a different kind of excitement bubbled within him. Father John had promised to take him somewhere special today, a place called the Stock Exchange. He had overheard hushed conversations between John and his father about it, a place where fortunes were made and lost with the scratch of a pen and the clang of a bell. He didn't fully grasp what it meant, but the anticipation, tinged with a quiet knowing gleaned from countless shared moments with Dean, perhaps even some faint echoes of his professor father's discussions, made his small heart beat a little faster. He threw back the covers, eager to start the day, the secret of his connection to Dean tucked safely away, ready to help him navigate whatever wonders the day might hold.