There was no gentle transition. No lullaby hum of rebirth. Just—
PAIN.
Jamie gasped like he'd been sucker-punched by life itself. His chest felt like someone had parked a truck on it, and his head throbbed with the rhythm of a war drum. Lights—too bright. Beeping—too loud. Air—too sterile.
He was alive. That was the first problem.
The second was that he couldn't understand a single damn word.
Somewhere nearby, a woman was sobbing. A man's voice followed—strained, panicked, definitely Spanish. Jamie's ears registered the sounds, but his brain refused to translate. It was all muffled noise, too fast, too loud, too—
"¿Jaime? ¡Mijo!"
He blinked, trying to sit up, only for a dull pain to spike through his ribs and flatten him back to the mattress.
"—por favor, despierta—"
Panic flared in his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a groan—and it felt wrong. The pitch. The weight. The shape of the mouth that made it.
Smaller. Younger. Not his.
And then it hit.
Like a wave smashing through his skull, a cascade of memories that weren't his surged forward.
His name was Jaime Reyes.
He lived in El Paso.
He liked soccer.
He had a little sister who bugged him every time she beat him at video games.
He'd just turned fifteen.
He'd just died.
Car crash. Rain. Tires skidding. The feeling of weightlessness and fear and knowing he wasn't going to make it. Then—darkness.
Jamie (Jaime?) squeezed his eyes shut as the memories settled in like a virus being installed into a fresh OS. For a second, it felt like drowning in someone else's life.
But when he opened his eyes again, everything made a little more sense.
"Jaime?!" the woman's voice broke with hope.
His head turned, slowly. A woman stood beside the bed, tear-streaked and clutching his hand like it was the only thing anchoring her to the world.
Jamie stared.
He knew her.
Rocio Reyes. His mother. Not his mother. But… yes. Sort of.
He licked his lips. Dry, cracked. He tried a word.
"...Ma?"
Her breath hitched like she'd been punched in the soul. "¡Gracias a Dios!"
She leaned forward, wrapping him in the kind of hug you could only get from someone who'd thought they lost you. He was too sore to hug back, but he didn't stop her.
His eyes stayed open, scanning the room. Sterile white walls. IV drip. His reflection in the polished metal edge of a tray.
Not Jamie anymore.
Jaime.
He was Jaime Reyes now.
The rest of the day was a blur of activity. Test after test and exam after exam. Jami—no, Jaime—was starting to think they'd never stop until Ma finally popped off at them sometime after sunset.
He wanted to stay up and talk to her, but his new body betrayed him. The sudden calm was too much for a body still recovering from a car crash.
So he didn't fight it when sleep came. Whatever weirdness tomorrow had in store—he'd face it after his beauty sleep.
---
Jaime woke up to the smell of chorizo and the sound of three people arguing in rapid-fire Spanish just outside his door. It was weirdly comforting—like waking up inside a sitcom.
He blinked groggily at the unfamiliar ceiling, vaguely aware that it was morning and his everything hurt.
Still, better than being swiss cheese on a battlefield.
The door burst open, and in walked a girl about his age with zero hesitation and about five different expressions of annoyance fighting for dominance on her face.
"Morning, space cadet," she said. "Try not to crash any more cars. Ma's already got three new gray hairs and Papi's praying like we're in a telenovela."
She plopped onto his bed like she owned the place.
"...Hi?" Jaime managed.
She frowned. "What's with your voice?"
"Throat's dry." Lie. It was the accent shift. English came easier to him now. He'd been fluent in life and death scenarios, but it hadn't been his first language until now.
She squinted suspiciously. "You sound like a cartoon character."
"You look like a cartoon character."
Her face lit up. "There he is. You are still annoying. Milagro, by the way. Don't forget it again."
Jaime smiled. "I'll do my best."
She punched his arm gently and then bounced out of the room, yelling, "HE'S ALIVE, EVERYONE, COME STARE AT HIM!"
What followed was chaos.
His mom, Rocio, checked his pulse and pinched his cheeks. His dad, Alberto, hugged him like he was afraid Jaime would vanish again. Nana smacked him upside the head for worrying everyone. Uncle Rudy tried to check for brain damage with a flashlight and a crystal. And Milagro filmed all of it for "evidence."
Despite the chaos, despite the awkward half-memories forming in his head—he felt... safe.
Home. Weird. That hadn't been a word that meant anything to him in a long time.