Chapter 2: The Rewind

A shrill scream cut through the air: "Help! Somebody help! He’s attacking me!"

I turned, startled by the sound. For a split second, my body tensed, ready to run toward the noise—muscles twitching like I’d hit an electric fence. But memories of fire, jail bars, and Grandma’s blood-stained plea froze me in place.

I saw a young girl in a floral dress being dragged into a gully by a mean-looking guy with a huge black birthmark on his forehead. He was one of those local hoods everyone whispered about but never named out loud, the kind who lurked near the gas station at night. Rachel’s dress was snagged on brambles, her sneakers muddy, her voice echoing off the stand of hickory trees at the edge of Miller’s woods.

"Please help..." Her cries, muffled and fading, echoed in the hollow. I sucked in a sharp breath, my veins throbbing. The sound of her desperation drilled into my skull. Part of me wanted to run in, fists swinging. But I remembered the feeling of cold steel on my wrists, the judgment in every neighbor’s eye. I stood rooted, sweat prickling my back.

The next moment, I turned and ran.

I wasn’t scared—not of the thug, or the woods, or even Rachel. I was scared of the spiral that would come if I stepped in—scared of the fate waiting down that path, familiar as the taste of blood in my mouth after a fight.

At that instant, hatred and anger nearly drowned out my reason. If I rushed in, I knew I wouldn’t be able to control myself—I might just attack that girl first, bite her neck, and tear her apart. It was as if the rage from my old life was coiled tight in my muscles, threatening to snap. I clenched my fists, jaw working as I sprinted away, leaves crunching underfoot.

For no other reason—because I had lived this life before. The taste of regret was sharp, metallic. I’d run these roads in dreams and nightmares both. Everything felt doubled—every sound, every shadow. Even the sweat on my brow seemed like déjà vu.

Once again, I was back on the day of the SATs in 1990. I glanced up at the sky—cloudless, endless, the same as that day. The air was thick with the smell of cut grass and wood smoke. It was like time itself had buckled and snapped me back.

That girl, seemingly about to be assaulted, was Rachel Lewis—the youngest daughter of the Lewis family from my town. The Lewises were old Willow Creek stock—big white farmhouse at the edge of town, American flag always hanging straight. Rachel was the kind of girl who’d always had clean shoes and a family at every PTA meeting, while I was the kid who brought government cheese sandwiches to lunch.

Her family lived at one end of our small Ohio town, mine at the other. We’d known each other since we were kids, though we rarely hung out. At best, we were just childhood acquaintances. In homeroom, she sat two rows over, always with her hand up, the sort of student teachers loved to praise. We never shared secrets, never swapped baseball cards under the bleachers. She was a face in the yearbook, not a chapter in my story—until now.

In my previous life, seeing her in trouble, I rushed over with a rock in hand, full of teenage bravado. I can still remember the feeling of the rock, heavy in my sweaty palm, the way my voice cracked as I tried to sound brave. It was pure adrenaline, all muscle and no thought. I’d felt like I could take on the world, until the world took me instead.

I yelled, "Hey, jerk, don’t move! My buddy’s already called the cops. Just wait to get arrested!"

My shout bounced off the trees, and for a split second, I thought I was the hero. Rachel’s eyes locked on mine, wild with relief and terror. The thug, freaked out, ran off clutching his pants. He stumbled through the brush, cursing and yelling threats, but he didn’t look back. I remember the way the birds scattered from the trees, as if they too were escaping the mess below.

Rachel sat up, covered her face, and cried, saying she’d never have the courage to face anyone again. Her sobs were so raw they made my skin crawl. She rocked back and forth, fists pressed to her mouth, repeating over and over that she was ruined. In a town this size, news traveled faster than lightning.

It was 1990, and this was rural Ohio. Rumors could ruin someone’s life. If word got out, she’d never live it down. I knew that as well as anyone—the way people here clung to their stories, how a rumor could outlive the person it was about. No one ever really left the past behind in Willow Creek.

I saw that her clothes were intact, just a bit wrinkled, so I tried to comfort her, promising to keep quiet and not tell a soul. I knelt beside her, voice low, telling her it’d be our secret. I swore on everything I had—my grandma, my dad’s memory, even my battered Red Sox cap.

"No one will gossip about you."

I put a hand on her shoulder, awkward but sincere. She sniffled, nodded, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing mud across her cheek.

At the time, I never imagined—the one who’d be destroyed by rumors would be me. I thought I was the hero in her story. But life, especially in a town like this, rarely writes fair endings.

After I promised to keep her secret and turned to leave, Rachel suddenly dropped to her knees, crawled over, grabbed my jeans, and sobbed, "You gotta help me, Mikey. He took everything—my ID, my ticket. I can’t get in without them."

Her grip was desperate, pulling at the hem of my jeans so hard I nearly toppled over. Her voice cracked, snot and tears running down her face as she begged. I could feel every eye in the woods watching, even if we were alone.

I was stunned, but immediately ran out to chase him. The adrenaline hit like a shot of cold water. I charged after the thug, crashing through the brush, lungs burning. My feet caught on roots, branches whipped my face, but I didn’t care. I ran as if my own future was in his hands, too.

For these three days, the test center only accepted documents, not faces. Back then, if you didn’t have your admission ticket, they didn’t care if your grandma vouched for you. No ID, no test, no exceptions. The county board was strict, and everyone knew it. The rules were the rules, and there was no bending them for country kids like us. No ticket meant no entry, period. No one cared if your dog ate your homework or your house burned down.

For kids like us, the SAT was the only way out. That ticket was half our future. I remembered the look in Grandma’s eyes when she talked about the city, the way her voice softened just thinking about a better life for me. For a lot of us, the SAT was the ticket out of Willow Creek, the only shot at breaking the cycle.

But after just a short delay, the thug was gone. I pounded down the dirt path, shouting his name, but all I heard was my own echo. The woods swallowed every sound, and soon even his footprints disappeared into the mud. Defeat clawed at my chest.

Unable to catch him, I hurriedly took Rachel to the test center. If we could find a teacher who recognized her, maybe she could go in first and fix the paperwork later. We raced along the side of the highway, Rachel limping, me half-carrying her. I waved at a passing pickup, but the driver—a neighbor—just looked away. By the time we reached the county school, our breath was ragged, and Rachel’s shoes were nearly falling apart.

But on the way, Rachel just kept crying and couldn’t run at all. She hiccupped with every step, her sobs slowing us down. I kept urging her, heart pounding as I watched the clock in my mind tick down.

By the time we arrived, there were less than five minutes before the test started. The doors loomed ahead, the line of kids already moving inside. I felt the weight of failure pressing on my shoulders.

I had no choice but to tell her to find her homeroom teacher and explain—maybe she could take the test and sort out the paperwork later. I grabbed her by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes. "Rachel, listen—you have to try. Find Mrs. Avery, tell her what happened. They know you here. Maybe they’ll let you in."

Rachel nodded timidly, said she was scared, and refused to let me go. Her grip was icy and strong, but I pried her fingers away. "You’ve gotta go, Rachel. This is your shot."

But I couldn’t wait. I broke free, ran to the proctor, handed over my documents, checked in, and sprinted into the exam room in the final minute. My chest was on fire as I slid into my seat. My pencil rolled off the desk, and the proctor just raised an eyebrow. I wiped sweat from my brow and tried to steady my hands. No matter what, I couldn’t let this chance slip away.

I wasn’t about to let Willow Creek chew me up and spit me out—not again.