Something was wrong with the bed. It felt massive around Zen's body, like he was sinking in the middle of an ocean. His legs didn't reach the end. The blanket weighed nothing.
He rolled over, still half-asleep. His shoulder bumped against something soft. A stuffed animal? His eyes snapped open.
A plush tiger stared back at him with glassy eyes. Zen hadn't slept with stuffed animals since...
He sat up fast. The room spun around him, unfamiliar yet eerily familiar. Blue walls. Glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. A poster of Michael Johnson in his gold shoes from the 1996 Olympics.
"What the hell?" His voice came out all wrong. High-pitched. Childish.
He looked down at his hands. Tiny. Smooth brown skin without the calluses from years of training. No scar on his right palm from that fall during college nationals.
Zen threw off the blanket and scrambled out of bed. His legs felt wobbly, like they didn't belong to him. He was wearing Spider-Man pajamas that were way too big for a grown man.
Except he wasn't a grown man anymore.
The mirror on his closet door showed a kid. Maybe eight years old. Same dark eyes, same nose, but rounder face. Smaller everything.
"No way." He touched his face. The reflection did the same. "No fucking way."
His heart pounded so hard he thought it might explode. He pinched his arm. Hard.
"Ow!" It hurt. This wasn't a dream.
He turned in a slow circle, taking in the room. Racing car bed. Toy box overflowing with action figures. Bookshelf with "Harry Potter" and "Captain Underpants." The exact room from his childhood home in Baltimore.
"I'm going crazy," he whispered. "This isn't real."
He picked up a small trophy from his desk. First Place, Junior Fun Run, age 7. He remembered this race. His first win ever. Dad had bought him ice cream after, even though Mom said it would rot his teeth.
Dad. Mom.
A laugh floated up from downstairs. A woman's laugh. One he hadn't heard in eight years.
Zen froze. Another voice joined in. Deep, warm. His father's voice.
"Oh my god." His small hands trembled. "Oh my god."
He walked to his bedroom door on unsteady legs. It felt like his heart might jump out of his throat. He pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway.
The voices grew clearer.
"He was out like a light when I checked on him last night." Mom's voice. So real. So alive.
"Kid's growing. Needs his sleep." Dad's deep rumble.
Zen crept down the stairs, one hand tight on the railing. The wood felt cool under his fingers. Real.
He reached the bottom step and peered around the corner into the kitchen.
They were there. Really there.
His mother stood at the stove, spatula in hand, flipping pancakes. Her dark hair pulled back in the neat bun she always wore. Slim but strong, in running shorts and a tank top showing off arms toned from years of training.
His father sat at the table, newspaper open, coffee mug in hand. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the same eyes Zen saw in the mirror every day. He wore track pants and a faded Olympic team t-shirt.
Zen couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. They'd died when he was eighteen. Car accident on a rainy night. He'd spent eight years without them.
And now they were here. Alive. Young.
"Mom?" His voice cracked. "Dad?"
They both looked up.
"Morning, sleepyhead!" Mom smiled. Then her expression changed as she saw his face. "Honey, what's wrong?"
Zen couldn't hold it back. Tears spilled down his cheeks. His small body shook with sobs.
"Baby, what happened?" Mom dropped the spatula and rushed to him, kneeling down.
Dad was right behind her, his big hand warm on Zen's shoulder. "What's wrong, champ?"
Zen threw himself into his mother's arms, burying his face against her neck. She smelled like vanilla and that cherry blossom lotion she always used. He breathed her in, desperate to memorize everything about her.
"Did you have a bad dream?" Dad asked, rubbing small circles on his back just like he used to.
Zen nodded against his mom's shoulder. It was the only explanation that made sense.
"Must have been a really scary one, huh?" Mom's arms tightened around him. Her hand cupped the back of his head, fingers gentle in his hair.
"I dreamed you were gone," Zen managed between sobs. "Both of you."
"Oh, sweetheart." Mom pulled back just enough to wipe his tears with her thumbs. "We're right here. We're not going anywhere."
Dad picked him up like he weighed nothing. Zen wrapped his arms around his father's neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his aftershave.
"Come on, buddy. Let's sit down." Dad carried him to the living room and settled on the couch with Zen on his lap. Mom sat beside them, her hand never leaving Zen's back.
"Want to talk about it?" Dad asked.
Zen shook his head. How could he explain? They'd think he was crazy.
"Sometimes talking helps," Mom suggested. She pushed his hair back from his forehead. "But you don't have to if you don't want to."
Zen wiped his nose on his pajama sleeve. Mom handed him a tissue from the coffee table.
"You died," he whispered. "In my dream. You were both gone and I was all alone."
His parents exchanged worried looks over his head.
"That's a pretty heavy dream for a little guy," Dad said. "But look at us. We're right here. Healthy as horses."
"Your dad's right." Mom took his small hand in hers. "And we're not planning on going anywhere for a very, very long time."
Zen nodded, his breathing finally slowing. The reality of the situation hit him again. He was a kid. His parents were alive. Somehow, impossibly, he'd gone back in time.
"You know what?" Dad said, shifting Zen on his knee. "I think we need some pancakes and then maybe a trip to the park. Sound good?"
"Yeah." Zen managed a small smile. "That sounds really good."
They walked back to the kitchen, Dad's arm around his shoulders. Mom flipped more pancakes while Dad poured a small glass of orange juice and set it in front of Zen.
As Mom slid a plate of pancakes toward him, she tilted her head. "You know, you seem different this morning."
"Different how?" Zen asked, trying to sound like a normal kid.
"I don't know." She studied him. "There's something in your eyes. Like you're..."
"Older," Dad finished. "Like you grew up overnight."
Zen carefully cut his pancakes. "Maybe I did. A little bit."
His parents shared another look. That silent communication they always had.
"You know, buddy," Dad started, setting down his coffee mug. "Your mom and I have been talking about something."
"What?" Zen asked, his heart speeding up again.
Mom sat down across from him. "We think you're old enough now to learn about what we do."
"What you do?" Zen repeated, trying to sound like he didn't already know.
"Our jobs," Dad explained. "Our running."
Mom nodded. "You know how fast you run in the backyard? Well, Daddy and I run even faster, and we do it in big races with lots of people watching."
"We won special medals called Olympic medals," Dad added. "They're like the biggest, most important races in the whole world."
Zen took a bite of pancake to hide his smile. "Like the poster in my room? The guy with the gold shoes?"
"Exactly!" Dad looked impressed. "That's Michael Johnson. He was one of the best runners ever."
"Did you win gold medals too?" Zen asked, knowing the answer perfectly well.
Mom smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "I did. In the 800 meters. That's two times around the big track."
"And I got silver," Dad added. "In the 400 meters. One time around the track, as fast as you can go."
"Wow," Zen said, genuinely impressed all over again. His parents had been amazing athletes. That's where he got his talent.
"And we were thinking," Mom continued, "that if you wanted, we could teach you how to run. The right way."
"Really?" Zen perked up, not having to fake his excitement.
"Really," Dad confirmed. "But it would be hard work. Like doing homework, but with your legs and your whole body."
"We'd start slow," Mom assured him. "Make it fun. But also teach you properly."
Zen set down his fork, heart thumping. This was it. This was his chance to do everything over again, but better. With his parents guiding him from the beginning.
"What do you think?" Dad asked. "Want to be a runner like your old man and your mom?"
"Yes!" Zen nodded eagerly. "I want to run just like you guys! I want to win races and medals and everything!"
His parents laughed, clearly delighted by his enthusiasm.
"Well, that's a yes if I ever heard one," Dad said, ruffling Zen's hair.
"We can start tomorrow morning," Mom said. "Just some easy jogging and games at first."
"And proper stretching," Dad added. "Very important so you don't get hurt."
"We'll take it one step at a time," Mom promised. "But if you stick with it and work hard..."
"You could be something special, buddy," Dad finished. "You've got our genes, after all."
DING
Zen flinched. A sound like a bell chimed in his head.
Suddenly, a blue screen appeared in his vision. His parents continued talking, clearly not seeing what he was seeing.
[OLYMPIC TRACK SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
[USER: ZEN CROSS - AGE 8 - TRAINING OPTIMIZATION ENABLED]
The words floated in blue text right in front of him. He blinked hard, but they didn't disappear.
[PARENTAL COACHING DETECTED - ELITE LEVEL TRAINING ENVIRONMENT CONFIRMED]
[BEGINNING BASELINE ASSESSMENT AND OPTIMIZATION PROTOCOLS]
Zen tried to keep his face neutral as his parents discussed training schedules. The blue text expanded, showing tabs labeled "Stats," "Skills," "Training," and "Records."
"Do you have any questions, honey?" Mom asked, breaking through his distraction.
Zen looked up at his parents. Both alive. Both ready to train him. And now this strange system in his head.
"No questions," he said, smiling. "I just can't wait to start."
This was his second chance. His parents were alive, he had his whole life ahead of him, and somehow he had this weird system thing to help him.
This time, nothing would stop him from becoming the champion he was meant to be. This time, he wouldn't let Jake or anyone else take it all away.
This time would be different.