Martha’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at the boy’s hand. There, on his wrist, was a birthmark—an exact replica of the one her youngest son had. But that was impossible. Her son was only four years old.
She took a step back, gripping the doorframe. “How… how do you have that?” she whispered.
The boy looked up at her, his eyes filled with something she couldn’t quite place—fear, desperation, hope. “Because I am him,” he said quietly. “I don’t know how, but I woke up like this.”
Martha shook her head. “No. That’s not possible. My son is at daycare right now.”
“I know,” the boy said, his voice trembling. “I remember going to sleep in my bed last night. And then… I woke up like this. I don’t understand it either, Mom.”
The way he said Mom sent a shiver down her spine. He sounded just like her little boy. He even had the same nervous habit—wringing his fingers when he was scared.
Her heart pounded. “This is crazy,” she murmured. But as she looked into his familiar brown eyes, a terrifying thought crept into her mind.
What if he was telling the truth?
