I handed Brian a crumpled piece of paper with the address scrawled on it. He squinted at it, holding it up like he was deciphering ancient runes.

  “Our HQ?”

  “Yup,” I said, tucking my hands into my hoodie pockets. “Meet me there tomorrow around one. I’ve got something to show you.”

  Brian’s grin stretched ear to ear. “Man, I can’t wait! I’ll bring snacks, my brainstorming notebook, and maybe a good-luck charm or something. You never know!”

  I smirked. “Don’t go overboard. It’s not the Taj Mahal.”

  Brian laughed, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make me stumble. “Dude, that’s what I love about you—always downplaying it. But seriously, I’ve got a good feeling about this. Tomorrow, it all begins!”

  “Sure does,” I said, smiling back. I watched him jog off, already mumbling to himself about marketing slogans and expansion plans.

  I turned and started walking home.

  The first week, we set up shop at Buckaroo’s Diner, claiming the corner booth as our unofficial headquarters. Onion rings, soda-stained napkins, and Brian sketching bad logos on the backs of placemats.

  He called it "creative fuel." I called it an excuse to eat his weight in curly fries.

  Later, we shifted to the library. Brian hated it—claimed the silence made his brain itch—but it had Wi-Fi and no risk of spilling ketchup on my laptop.

  Brian was a whirlwind, bouncing between ideas like a pinball. One second, he was brainstorming a logo with flaming skis. The next, he was pitching a merch line called Struggle Swag. I spent most of my time reigning him in, nodding at the occasional good idea but mostly just letting him run.

  Our freelance dev, Gravy, was turning our chaos into a game, and I had to admit, the guy was weirdly efficient. The first test build was already playable.

  Brian loved it.

  I leaned back in my chair, watching him fail over and over, the game hurling insults at him every time he crashed.

  “Dude,” Brian wheezed between laughter. “This is gonna be huge.”

  I forced a grin.

  By the time I reached Hillside Heights, the sun was sinking, casting the town in burnt orange. The record store had its usual $2 Vinyl Revival bin sitting out front, chalk sign a little more faded than I remembered. Buckaroo’s neon flickered faintly, glowing pink and blue against the cracked sidewalk.

  I passed a group of kids playing basketball in an alley, their makeshift hoop duct-taped to a fire escape. Someone had chalked a scoreboard onto the pavement.

  It was all so intact.

  I lingered outside Buckaroo’s. Through the glass, a waitress in a retro uniform balanced a tray of milkshakes, the jukebox playing something scratchy but upbeat. A moment frozen in time.

  In 2026, places like this didn’t exist anymore. It was replaced with a stupid data server.

  I shoved my hands into my pockets and kept walking.

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  The Hartman house stood exactly as I remembered—pale blue, mismatched shutters, driveway cracked like a spiderweb. The wind chime on the porch tinkled faintly in the breeze, rusted edges swaying.

  I climbed the porch steps, the wood creaking under my weight, and pushed open the door.

  Grandpa Joe was in his recliner, a half-finished crossword and a popcorn bowl balanced on his stomach.

  He glanced up from the black-and-white Western playing on the ancient box TV.

  "You look like a man who's either seen a ghost or just realized he forgot to turn in a term paper."

  I snorted.

  From the kitchen, Mom’s humming blended with the sizzle of frying chicken.

  I grabbed a glass from the cabinet as she turned, giving me a quick once-over.

  “You’re late,” she said, flipping a drumstick. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Working on that project with Brian.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Brian? The Brian?”

  “That’s the one.”

  She laughed. “Well, at least you’re getting out of the house. Just don’t let him talk you into anything too ridiculous.”

  Dad was at the kitchen table, newspaper spread out in front of him. He didn’t look up when he spoke.

  “Hope you’re not wasting your time.”

  Dinner played out exactly as I remembered. Grandpa Joe talking about things no one should repeat in polite company, Dylan making snide remarks about everything from the food to his homework, Mom trying to steer the conversation into safe territory, and Dad grumbling about bills.

  I ate in silence, letting it all wash over me.

  It wasn’t perfect.

  But it was mine.

  At least for now.

  Tomorrow… Tomorrow, I’d show Brian the building.

  Tomorrow, we’d see just how far this could go.

  I had $50,000 in potential revenue.

  And I needed to make sure it never saw the light of day.

  By the time I got home, the house was quiet. Grandpa Joe had fallen asleep in his recliner, the soft hum of the late-night news droning on in the background. Mom had left a plate of leftovers on the kitchen counter, covered in foil with a sticky note that read, Eat. Don’t just drink coffee.

  I smirked, peeling the foil back. Fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Classic.

  I ate standing up, my mind already drifting to tomorrow—the HQ, Brian, the next steps. But as I rinsed my plate and set it in the sink, my gaze wandered toward the hallway leading to my room.

  It was a mess.

  Not just a mess—a time capsule of bad habits. Clothes piled in the corner, empty soda cans on my desk, a dresser covered in random junk. The laundry basket was overflowing, stuffed with crumpled jeans and hoodies I barely remembered wearing.

  I sighed. If I was really going to do this—if I was going to live in this past like it was my present—I needed to stop living like a damn teenager.

  Rolling up my sleeves, I grabbed the laundry basket and hauled it downstairs.

  An hour later, the washing machine hummed softly in the background as I stood in the middle of my room, hands on my hips.

  It already looked better.

  The floor was visible, the bed was made, and I had actually wiped down my desk for the first time in... probably years. I tossed an old shoebox full of junk under the bed and took a deep breath.

  Not bad.

  I wasn’t some completely new person, but maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to be exactly the same either.

  Checking my alarm, I set it for 5:30 AM—a stupidly early time, but if I was going to keep this momentum going, I might as well commit.

  Flopping onto my now clean bed, I exhaled, staring at the ceiling.

  Tomorrow, I’d introduce Brian to the HQ.

  Tomorrow, we’d start.

  I shut my eyes.

  Early Morning

  The alarm ripped me out of sleep at 5:30 AM sharp.

  For a moment, I hated my past self for setting it.

  Then, as I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I saw the clean floor, the folded laundry, the tiny sense of control I had given myself last night.

  That was enough motivation to get me moving.

  I grabbed the fresh clothes from the laundry room, tossed them onto my bed, and got to work.

  Folding. Organizing. Actually putting things away instead of shoving them into random drawers.

  By 7:00 AM, my room looked entirely different.

  I even dragged out the old vacuum from the hallway closet and ran it across the carpet, watching the dust disappear. No more random crumbs. No more mystery stains.

  As I dusted off the old bookshelf, I ran my fingers over the spines of books I hadn’t touched in years—textbooks, sci-fi paperbacks, a few business books Sarah had given me but I never read.

  One caught my eye.

  A battered, dog-eared copy of Good to Great.

  I snorted. Irony at its finest.

  Tossing it back on the shelf, I stretched, glancing at the clock.

  Still plenty of time before I needed to meet Brian.

  For the first time since waking up in 2010, I actually felt ahead of schedule.

  I should go to the library to learn up on how to really run a company.