Adrian Cole was five years old and he liked three things: dinosaurs, waffles with maple syrup, and swinging so high his stomach tingled.
It was a sunny Saturday, and his dad had promised to take him to the park after breakfast if Adrian was good and ate all his lunch vegetables. Adrian had eaten all his carrots—even the two that fell on the floor and that his mom said didn't count but did—so now they were in the car on their way to Laurelhurst Park.
"Can I go on the swings first?" Adrian asked from the back seat.
"Shoes first," his dad said, looking at him in the rearview mirror. "Your laces are loose."
Adrian looked at his shoes. The Velcro straps were perfectly fastened, but his dad always said that. It was one of those grown-up things. Adrian pressed the straps harder anyway. "Now?"
"Now you're good."
The park had big swings—the biggest in all of Portland, his dad had said—and Adrian ran toward them as soon as they got out of the car. Well, he almost ran. His dad stopped him first.
"Park rules, champ."
Adrian sighed. He knew the rules. He'd heard them a thousand times. "I stay where you can see me. I don't talk to strangers. I don't climb on things too high. I don't go to the lake without you."
"Good man." His dad ruffled his hair, which was half annoying but also half nice. "Thirty minutes, and then we'll go to the grocery store."
Thirty minutes was a long time. Adrian didn't even know how long thirty minutes really was, only that it was enough time to swing a lot.
He ran toward the swings.
The first swing was the best because it was closest, but the second one made a funny noise when you swung, and the third one was a little longer. Adrian started on the first one, pushing off with his legs like his dad had taught him. Up, back, up, back. Higher and higher until he could see over the park fence.
His mom was sitting at a table reading a book. His dad was exercising near the path, because his dad always exercised. Adrian swung and swung and everything was perfect and normal and boring in the good way that Saturdays were boring.
And then something weird happened.
It wasn't big. It didn't hurt. It just... felt weird for a second. Like when you wake up from a nap and can't remember where you are. Adrian stopped moving his legs and the swing started to slow down.
Something appeared in his head—not words he could read because he was just learning to read—but a feeling of words. Like when someone speaks to you in a dream.
And then his head felt... full.
It didn't hurt. It was just weird. Like when you drink a lot of water very fast and your stomach feels heavy. But this was his head, not his stomach.
Adrian blinked. The park looked the same. The trees were still in the same place. His mom was still reading her book. His dad was still exercising. But something was different. Something inside him.
"Adrian?"
His mom was looking at him from the table. Adrian didn't know why. He was fine. He'd just been still for a second.
"Honey? Are you okay?"
Adrian moved his mouth to say yes, but the words didn't come out right away. He had to think of them first, which was weird because usually the words just flowed. "Uh-huh."
His dad walked over to him quickly, with that worried look dads get when they think something's wrong. "Adrian. What happened?"
"Nothing." Adrian got off the swing. His legs were working normally. Everything was working normally. "I felt weird."
His mom knelt in front of him and put her hands over his face. "Weird how?"
Adrian didn't know how to explain it. "Just weird. It's over now."
His parents looked at each other. They exchanged that adult look that meant they were communicating without words. Finally, his dad said, "Maybe too much sun. Let's go home."
In the car on the way back, Adrian looked out the window. Everything looked normal. The sky was blue. The trees were green. The other cars were red, white, and black.
But something inside him felt different.
Not in a bad way. Just different.
Like he'd been asleep his whole life and had just woken up, but hadn't known he'd been asleep until now.
His dad was driving. His mom was looking at her phone. Adrian counted the passing cars. One, two, three. One, two, three. He liked counting in threes. He didn't know why. He just did.
"How are you feeling now?" his mom asked, turning in her seat to look at him.
"Fine."
And it was true. He felt fine. Normal. Just like always.
Except for this new thing in his head that he didn't understand, but that didn't bother him either. It was simply... a part of him now.
His dad signaled for the turn. Adrian watched the little green arrow blinking on the dashboard. Blink, blink, blink. He liked counting that too.
"Are we still going to the supermarket?" he asked.
"Tomorrow," his mom said. "Today we're going straight home."
"Okay."
He didn't really care. The supermarket was boring anyway.
His dad turned onto their street. Adrian recognized the trees and the houses. Mrs. Chen's with the purple flowers. Mr. Rodriguez's with the big dog that barked but was friendly. His house was at the end, the brown one with the white door.
"Dad, can I play outside when we get there?"
"Let's see how you feel first."
The car stopped at a red light. Adrian counted how long it took for it to turn green. One-elephant, two-elephant, three-elephant... He didn't even make it to four-elephant.
Because at that moment something happened that Adrian didn't understand.
There was a very loud noise. Like thunder, but closer. And the car shook. And his mom screamed. And his dad said a bad word that Adrian couldn't repeat.
And then the car was on its side.
No, not on its side. Spinning. Everything was spinning.
Adrian wasn't scared. That was the strange thing. He should have been scared. But instead, he felt... calm. Like this was normal. Like he'd done it before.
Whatever happens, happens, he thought, not knowing where those words came from.
The car stopped spinning. There was smoke. His mom was crying. Adrian tried to look ahead, but something was blocking his view. Something that smelled like metal and rubber.
"Dad?"
There was no answer.
"Dad?"
His mom turned to look at him. There was blood on her forehead. "Adrian, honey, don't move. Stay still, okay?"
"Where's Dad?"
His mother didn't answer. She just kept crying.
And Adrian, five years and one hour old, sat in his seat with his seatbelt still fastened, not fully understanding what had just happened, but knowing—in some deep, indescribable way—that something had changed.
Something important.
Something that couldn't be undone.
Outside, sirens wailed.