The leather seats of Jay's Cadillac smelled like expensive cigars, floor cleaner, and old-school discipline. Outside the window, the palm trees of Brentwood blurred into a hazy green smear under the late afternoon sun. It was 2009, a year that felt strangely primitive yet burgeoning with the digital age. I sat in the back, my frame already filling out the seat in a way that spoke of a late-teen growth spurt I shouldn't have reached yet. To Jay, I was Mason, the boy he'd officially adopted after marrying my mother, Gloria. I had been on my way back to the city when the accident happened—a multi-car pileup on the PCH that should have ended my existence.
The doctors had called my survival "biological defiance." They didn't know about the Peak Athlete Physique. In that split second of impact, my body hadn't just reacted; it had optimized. My muscle fibers had wound themselves into high-tensile cords, my bones had increased in density to absorb the kinetic energy of a two-ton vehicle, and my reflexes had slowed time just enough for me to brace with surgical precision. While the car had been reduced to a graveyard of scrap metal and safety glass, I had walked away as if I were merely finishing a light afternoon jog. I felt a humming vitality beneath my skin, a constant, low-frequency buzz of energy that told me I was capable of things no other human in this reality could achieve.
And then there was the Total Recall.
Every time I closed my eyes, I didn't see the wreckage. I saw scenes from a television show I'd watched in a previous life. I saw 250 episodes of this family's future. I saw the upcoming decade of my mother's life, my little brother Manny's heartbreaks, and Jay's gradual softening from a hard-edged businessman to a doting grandfather. I saw the documentary crew that wasn't there, the invisible "mockumentary" lenses that defined the aesthetic of this world. I was a fan reborn into the source material, and at fifteen, I was perfectly positioned to be the lead actor. My mind was a library of secrets: I knew about the "Baby Lily" reveal happening this week, I knew about Phil's secret insecurities, and I knew every mistake this family was about to make.
"We're almost there, Mason," Jay said. His voice was gravelly, lacking the bite it usually had. He kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror, his thick brow furrowed with a mix of pity and a burgeoning, confused respect. Jay didn't do "feelings," but he did "duty," and he was currently trying to process the fact that his stepson looked less like a victim and more like a Greek god carved from granite. Jay had always struggled to connect with Manny's sensitive, artistic nature—the poetry, the pan-flutes, the French films. But in me, he saw something he understood: a Pritchett-in-spirit with the legendary Delgado fire.
"Your mother hasn't slept," Jay continued, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "She's been lighting enough candles to burn the house down and shouting at the heavens in three different languages. If she smothers you, just let it happen. She needs this. And Manny... well, he's been a mess. He's ten, but he acts like he's fifty, and he's been trying to write a 'requiem' for you for three days. Just nod and eat the cheese he offers you." Jay sighed, a sound of genuine exhaustion. "I know I'm not your father. Javier is... well, Javier is a clown with a private jet. But you're a man now, Mason. You've got the name. You've got the look. In this house, we move forward. We don't look back at the wreckage."
I looked up, meeting his eyes in the mirror. Jay was in his prime "grumpy patriarch" phase. According to my recall, the family was currently a set of disconnected islands about to be forced into a single continent. "I appreciate it, Jay," I said. My voice was resonant and calm, lacking the typical cracks of a teenager. "I'm ready to get back to being the big brother Manny needs. I'm not looking to be a project; I'm looking to be a pillar."
"Pillar. I like that," Jay muttered. "We'll get you enrolled at the high school on Monday. Same one as your step-cousin Haley. She's your age, though she spends more time on that phone than in a textbook. Try not to let her bad habits rub off on you."
We pulled into the driveway of the familiar white-walled mansion. Before the engine even died, the front door flew open. Gloria Delgado-Pritchett didn't walk; she arrived like a force of nature. Behind her stood Manny, wearing a fedora and holding a small plate of Manchego.
"Mason! Mi hijo!" Gloria cried, rushing to the car. As I stepped out, she had to look up—I was already pushing six feet, my presence far more imposing than the boy who had left for his trip weeks ago. She threw her arms around me with a strength that would have winded anyone else. "Ay, mi amor! The saints, they listened! You are safe! You are like a mountain!"
I leaned into the hug, sensing her fierce maternal love. This was the woman who had fought for us in the streets of Colombia. My "Total Recall" reminded me of every sacrifice she'd made. "I'm okay, Mom," I whispered.
"I'm here too," Manny said, stepping forward with the gravity of a diplomat. "I've prepared a brief oration on the resilience of the human spirit, but seeing as you've survived a traumatic kinetic event, I assume you'd prefer the protein."
I took a piece of cheese and gave my little brother a wink. "Poetry later, Manny. Manchego now." Manny beamed. He finally had his protector back. As I followed them into the house, I felt the "fourth wall" dissolve entirely. This wasn't a sitcom anymore; it was my life. And I was going to make sure the script was rewritten for the better.