A/N

Thank you so, so much to everyone who's been reading, following, and/or favoriting this story. It's a small fandom, so it's been cool to see the response to this little story. I especially want to thank everyone who's left a review. Shoutouts to ColorlessRainbow42, Jacob Denness, geoavenger, diggerboy4, and various guests :)

I know it's been a long time since I've posted an update, but here is the next chapter. I have another one almost ready to go, so look out for that in the next couple weeks. I'm planning to finish this up with about ten chapters total, and I definitely plan to finish it.

Cheers, and happy Saturday!

-Norah

Chapter 3

Gary

Gary Holden was pacing around the living room, waiting for his son to come home. His wife had been in the kitchen for hours, making lasagna, Trevor's favorite. It had been his son's favorite since he was a little boy, and so of course it must still be his favorite. And of course what people were saying had to be wrong, what Trevor himself had said on video, it had to be wrong. Nobody jumped in and out of bodies. Nobody's mind traveled ... anywhere. It was stupid. A stupid prank. And Trevor was absolutely, without a doubt grounded. But Gary did not believe in crazy, weirdo theories. So everybody should just calm down.

Patricia hadn't said a word all afternoon, not since they'd started getting phone calls from friends and family. She'd just been making the lasagna, taking extra care with every chopped tomato, every single step of the recipe. She'd turned on music in the kitchen, the Beatles, much louder than she'd ever done before, as if she thought that John Lennon and Paul McCartney's voices might drown out her worry and her doubt.

If Trevor would just come home, or answer his damned cell phone, all of this could be sorted out. There had to be a logical explanation for his truly bizarre behavior, for that video he'd made.

A knock at the door startled Gary from his pacing.

Patricia dashed into the living room. "Trevor wouldn't knock," she said.

He nodded, agreeing with her. "Let's hope the idiot press hasn't gotten involved," he muttered, as he walked to the door. So far, Trevor's name hadn't been released, so they hadn't had any calls from newspapers or television people. But they'd had plenty of calls. His brother in Oregon. Teachers. Nosy neighbors. Patricia's old college roommate. They'd told all these busybodies the same thing—Trevor was the same person he'd always been.

On the other side of their front door stood Trevor's girlfriend, Rene, a slender, very pretty, dark-haired girl, who looked like she might throw up any second. "Is he here?" she asked.

Gary shook his head, but stepped aside to let the girl in. "He's not answering his cell phone," he told her. "But I'm sure he'll be home soon."

Patricia drew the girl into a hug. "You poor thing. You look like you've seen a ghost. It's not true, of course. Some practical joke. Though why that FBI agent is playing along, I can't tell you, because he looks entirely too old for practical jokes. But I'm making lasagna. You'll stay for dinner. Trevor will show up, and everything will be fine. After Gary has yelled at him."

Rene nodded and smiled. Or she attempted to smile. "Do you think he's okay?" she asked. "I mean, what could he be mixed up in that he'd do something like this?"

Patricia just clucked and shook her head before retreating to the kitchen.

"He's got hell to pay," Gary said to Rene, and himself. "That's for sure. He hasn't seen trouble if he hasn't seen my face today. But he's fine. We'd have ... I mean somebody would've called us ... he's fine."

They settled into an uneasy silence, as Gary resumed pacing and Rene pulled her cell phone out of her hand bag and began typing furiously on the touch screen. He was wondering if he should turn on the TV to distract himself, and if it would be worth the risk that his son's picture would show up on the screen – when he heard the sound of a key turning the lock on the front door. And then Trevor was walking inside.

His son walked in the door. His expression was calm, so calm that it betrayed no emotions. He came in slowly but deliberately, nodding at both Gary and Rene, kicking the door closed behind him. "Aren't you supposed to be in college?" he asked Rene.

"She goes to college?" Gary asked.

Trevor nodded. "Just started. At Whitman. Which is in a town called Walla Walla. Isn't that a wonderful name for a town?"

Gary just stared at this kid, dumbfounded. Why was he talking about Walla Walla?

"Do you have any idea what your mother and I have been going through?" he was asking. "You are –" but he was cut off when Patricia ran out from the kitchen, throwing her arms around her only child.

"It's okay, Mom," Trevor said, letting himself be hugged for a whole minute before gently pulling himself away. "I take it you've seen the video?"

Gary grabbed Trevor roughly by the arm and sat him down on the couch, hard. "This is no laughing matter."

"Who's laughing?" Trevor asked, glowering at Gary.

"Where have you been?" Patricia asked.

Rene sat down beside Trevor and patted his knee, encouragingly, as she said, "We just want to know what's going on? This is a little weird."

"A little?" Gary snapped.

Trevor locked eyes with him and then nodded, almost imperceptibly, as if he was agreeing to cooperate, or agreeing that he needed to take this seriously. After a long while, he said, "I was getting questioned by the FBI. Now, everybody just take a breath, because this is going to be fine. Obviously what I said on the video was a lie. These people, they'd taken hostages. We were trying to get them back. And we did. We thought we could stop the videos from getting released. That part of the plan didn't work."

Gary felt like this anger inside his body might just bubble to the surface, and maybe even set the whole house on fire. "Since when does anything you do involve the FBI?"

Trevor tapped his fingers together, seeming like he was considering his answer. Finally he said, "There was this hacking thing. It wasn't supposed to be a big deal. But the FBI was tracking the chatter in chat rooms, on the internet. Agent MacLaren got involved."

Patricia gasped. "He came by the house! I remember him now."

Trevor nodded. "So anyway, he offered me and my friend Philip a deal. We took it. We didn't want to have our whole lives screwed up."

"But you're a minor! Or you were until a week ago!" Patricia shrieked. "He's not allowed to do that without talking to us."

Trevor shrugged. "Well, I guess there's special rules because I was able to help on some cases that pertain to national security."

Gary raised his eyebrows. "What exactly could you do that would have anything to do with national security. Last I checked, the main thing you did on the computer was look up internet porn."

Trevor shrugged again. "Can't answer that, Gary."

"And that's another thing – " he was saying.

But Patricia held up a hand and interrupted him. "We need to speak to this Agent MacLaren."

"That can be arranged," Trevor said with a conciliatory smile.

"Now," Gary barked at him.

Trevor shook his head. "Tomorrow. Not tonight. His wife was one of the hostages. They are both shaken up. We're leaving them alone for now."

"Well at least tell us what you're doing that 'pertains to national security' and also when you started using the word pertain," Gary snapped.

Trevor shook his head. "Protocols are protocols, Gary. Can't tell you that. But I can eat lasagna. Is that lasagna I smell?"

###

Trevor and Rene thought they were alone in the living room. In fact, Gary and Patricia had left them alone, gone up to their bedroom to watch a movie. They'd sat uneasily next to each other in bed, barely talking, continually looking at each other with the intention of saying something, though generally staying quiet. But Gary had gone down to the kitchen for ice cream, and happened to be on the landing of the stairs, close enough to hear Rene saying, "I know it's real. You don't have to pretend with me."

His son laughed, his deep, rumbly laugh, saying, "What are you talking about?"

"You're not him. You haven't been for a long time. It's okay though. You're better now. You're kind. He was never kind."

Trevor cleared his throat, saying, "I think you've got the wrong idea."

"Trevor, 115, whoever you are," Rene said, her voice remarkably calm, remarkably even. "You do everything differently now." There was a pause, and Gary wondered what they were doing. "Even that," she said. "You even kiss differently. And we haven't had sex in seven months. Is that because I've gotten super ugly, or is it because you aren't him, and maybe you're really a hundred years old, and you have morals?"

Trevor laughed. "Really drinking the Koolaid, Rene, are you?" he said.

Gary felt his hand tremble. His son had been different lately. Ever since the concussion. That stupid cage fight. What if? But it was crazy.

Rene kept up this line of questioning for a couple more minutes, but Trevor didn't tell her anything, kept denying it all. As they began moving towards the front door, Gary crept into the kitchen. He didn't want Trevor to realize that he'd listened in. He held his breath as his son's girlfriend left their house, as Trevor ran up the stairs and disappeared into his own room, behind his own door. The room where he'd grown up, where he'd slept since he was six months old. This was his son, his only child. He had to be. Otherwise – it was too hard, too much, too everything.