South Camden, New Jersey10:42 PM

  The rain hit the roof like static. Sharp. Constant. The kind of sound that made people turn the TV volume up just to ignore what was outside.

  Javiel Rivera — "J" to his friends, if he still had any — sat at the kitchen table with a pencil in his hand and a notebook he hadn't touched all school year. He wasn't writing anything. Just dragging the pencil in loops across the margin like he was trying to hypnotize himself.

  His mom stirred a pot on the stove. Rice and beans. Cheap, but it smelled like comfort. His little brother, Mateo, sat cross-legged on the floor with an old action figure clutched in his hand, making pew pew sounds and crashing it against a broken toy truck.

  Their dad stood by the window, silent. Watching.

  The tension was subtle but real. Every few minutes, his father would glance at the clock... then back out the window... then down at the bag on the counter. It wasn't groceries. Javiel had seen him take it out of the closet earlier. It made a dull clink when it hit the counter. Metal.

  Gun.

  He wasn't dumb.

  "Mijo," his mom said softly, "you want a plate now or when the rice is done?"

  "I'm not hungry."

  "You didn't eat lunch."

  He shrugged, eyes still on the pencil. Drawing nothing.

  His father spoke without turning.

  "If I say run, you run. You understand?"

  The pencil stopped.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  His mom stiffened, but didn't argue.

  "Javiel," his dad said again, slower this time.

  "...Yeah."

  ?

  10:45 PM

  The knock came soft. Two times. Pause. One more.

  Too slow to be a neighbor. Too casual to be friendly.

  His father didn't say anything. He moved to the counter, unzipped the bag. The metal clinked again. He slid something into the back of his waistband.

  The knock came again. Louder this time.

  "Probably wrong house," his mom said quietly.

  Javiel already knew it wasn't.

  His dad motioned to the boys. His mom scooped Mateo up without a word, moved toward the bedroom.

  Then the door exploded inward.

  ?

  TIME FROZE.

  But only for him.

  The sound dropped out. Everything bent.

  He turned — or thought he did. It felt like his body was moving through thick syrup. Lights flickered. Shadows doubled. One masked man with a rifle. Another raising a hand to fire. His mom's mouth open in a scream that hadn't happened yet. His father halfway through drawing the gun.

  Javiel saw it all — and saw himself.

  Dead.

  Slumped on the floor. A hole in his chest. Eyes wide. Blood crawling toward the fridge.

  He blinked.

  The world snapped like rubber, and he was back — standing. Alive. Gasping. But changed.

  ?

  One attacker already lay bleeding — his dad had fired.

  The second was shouting. The third aimed straight at him.

  Instinct. Panic. Flicker.

  He wasn't behind the table anymore.

  He was beside it. His hand landed on something — cold, heavy.

  His father's gun.

  ?

  He didn't remember pulling the trigger.

  Just the sound.

  BANG. BANG.

  Just the blur of the men hitting the floor.

  Just silence.

  ?

  10:47 PM

  Mateo wasn't crying anymore. His mother wasn't moving. His dad was crumpled by the door, one arm still reaching toward him.

  Javiel stood alone. Eleven years old. Blood on his hoodie. Gun shaking in his hand.

  And the smell of burnt rice curling in the air.

  I died.

  But I'm still here?