PROLOGUE

 

Christmas night had reached the phase where everyone pretends they aren’t tired.

 

The wrapping paper had been stuffed into black trash bags. The dishwasher ran its steady, forgiving cycle. A Hallmark movie glowed in the living room, where snow fell on attractive people with solvable problems.

 

Noah stood in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee that had gone cold while he was pretending to drink it.

 

He was twenty-six. He lived in Seattle. He worked as a product analyst for a mid-sized tech firm that described itself as “disruptive” but mostly disrupted meeting schedules. His job involved dashboards, projections, and politely explaining to executives why numbers were not feelings.

 

It paid well enough. It did not feel like progress.

 

Emily leaned against the counter scrolling her phone.

 

“So,” she said without looking up, “another thrilling year of being… you?”

 

He smiled thinly. “We’re coming in hot tonight.”

 

“I’m just asking. Any big announcements? Promotion? Engagement? Start-up? Minor cult?”

 

“I got upgraded to Premium on Spotify.”

 

She nodded. “Aim high.”

 

She looked up at him then — not cruel, just honest.

 

“Are you going to tell the touchdown story again?”

 

“It was a good throw.”

 

“It was sophomore year.”

 

“It was windy.”

 

“You’re twenty-six.”

 

Their mother dried a plate twice.

 

“You’re doing fine,” she said gently. “Everyone moves at their own pace.”

Pace.

 

A word that sounds encouraging until you realize it implies a race.

 

His father folded his newspaper carefully.

 

“You’ve got stability,” he added. “Good company. Good benefits.”

 

“And a 401(k),” his mom said quickly.

 

“Matching contributions,” his father said.

 

They meant well.

 

That was the worst part.

 

Noah had grown up in this house. Stable middle-class. Soccer practices. College tours. Encouragement without pressure. He had done everything correctly.

 

Correctly just hadn’t turned into momentum.

 

“I’m going to meet the guys,” he said, grabbing his coat.

 

“Don’t stay out too late,” his mother called.

 

“Watch for ice,” his father added.

 

“And text when you get home,” she said.

 

“I’m twenty-six.”

 

“Exactly,” she replied.

 

Emily lifted her glass toward him. “Try not to network emotionally.”

 

He left before he could decide whether that was funny.

 

***

 

The bar was crowded with the kind of people who didn’t want to go home yet.

 

Jason was already in full slideshow mode.

 

“He screamed when he saw the train set,” he said, showing pictures of his toddler wrapped in Christmas lights like a small, happy hostage. “Best Christmas ever.”

 

Tyler leaned back, relaxed in a way that suggested he’d never once doubted his trajectory.

 

“Madison loved the necklace,” he said. “Didn’t see it coming. Tears.”

 

“Real tears?” Noah asked.

 

“Real tears.”

 

“Weaponized thoughtfulness,” Noah said.

 

Tyler grinned. “Confidence. That’s the secret.”

 

Marcus swirled the last of his drink and shrugged.

 

“Meanwhile I got my dad socks,” he said. “And he still managed to act surprised.”

 

Noah nodded like he was taking notes.

 

Jason had a mortgage and a child.

 

Tyler had a girlfriend who cried over jewelry.

Marcus had mastered the art of low expectations.

 

Noah had a shared Google calendar and a gym membership he occasionally visited out of guilt.

 

He loved these guys. He did.

 

But somewhere along the line, they had stepped into adult lives that felt intentional.

 

Noah felt like he was buffering.

 

He scanned the room.

 

People in sweaters. Laughter that felt effortless. Couples leaning into each other. Groups clinking glasses.

 

He didn’t want to be exceptional.

 

He didn’t need to be famous.

 

He just wanted the feeling that everyone else seemed to have — that quiet forward motion.

 

“Alright,” he said, standing. “Time to chase personal growth.”

 

Tyler raised his glass. “Remember — lead with eye contact, not analytics.”

 

***

 

He tried.

 

He really did.

 

“Hi,” he said to a woman near the bar. “Is this playlist bad or criminal?”

 

“Criminal,” she said.

 

“Then we’re aligned.”

 

“My boyfriend picked it.”

 

“Bold man,” Noah replied. “I respect chaos.”

 

Abort.

 

At the dartboard:

 

“I just heard you defend Die Hard as a Christmas movie,” he said. “That’s courage.”

 

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you hitting on me?”

 

“Only if Bruce Willis saved your childhood.”

 

She walked away.

 

Data inconclusive.

 

Near the coat rack:

 

“Full transparency,” he said to someone else, “statistically Christmas night ranks high for impulsive decisions.”

 

“You opened with statistically,” she said.

 

“I work in product analytics.”

 

“That tracks.”

 

She returned to her friends.

 

He bumped into someone and spilled cider down his sleeve.

 

“Oh good,” he said, staring at the stain. “I was worried I looked too put together.”

 

She laughed.

 

For a moment he thought this might be it.

 

Then someone else called her name and she left.

 

By eleven-thirty, Noah decided the universe had other priorities.

 

***

 

He took the side exit by mistake – or at least that’s what he told himself later.

 

The alley was colder than it should have been.

 

A folding table sat under a strand of Christmas lights that flickered with low confidence.

 

Behind it, a woman in a red coat watched him.

 

“Fortunes,” she said. “Five dollars.”

 

“You take Venmo?”

 

She gave him a long look.

 

“I’m in an alley with a folding table,” she said. “Do I look like I scan QR codes?”

 

“Fair.”

 

“Cash. The future doesn’t trust apps.”

 

He handed her a wrinkled five.

 

“So,” he said, “what happens to me?”

 

She studied him longer than necessary.

 

“You’re about to see how everyone else lives.”

 

“That sounds expensive.”

 

“You’re going to try on seven lives,” she continued. “They won’t fit. And every time, something leaves with you.”

 

“Something important,” said Noah.

“You’ll decide that later.”

 

“That feels dramatic.”

 

“It’s not dramatic,” she said. “It’s educational.”

 

He hesitated.

 

“Lottery numbers?”

 

“Kid,” she said, leaning back, “you couldn’t handle winning.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

She smiled slowly.

 

“Good luck, Noah,” she said.

 

He felt the air thin.

 

He hadn’t said his name.

 

When he looked again, she was watching the street.

 

Done with him.

***

 

He stepped into the road without thinking.

 

The car made almost no sound.

 

He turned at the last second.

 

“Oh,” he said.

 

Impact.

 

He hit the pavement hard enough to knock the confidence out of his lungs.

 

The sky above him cracked open between clouds.

 

Stars.

 

Cold and indifferent.

 

He let out a small laugh.

 

“Taken out by efficiency,” he murmured.

 

Someone shouted to call 911.

 

“At least it wasn’t texting.”

 

The stars blurred.

 

Then everything did.