Rain lashed against the windshield of the 2014 Honda Civic. It was a miserable Tuesday night in November, the kind where the streetlights blurred into streaks of angry orange on the wet asphalt.
Michael gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. The radio was playing a replay of a post-game interview. Patrick Mahomes was talking about "grit" and "execution."
Michael reached out and snapped it off.
"Grit," he scoffed, his voice bitter in the empty car. "Easy to have grit when you're a god."
At thirty-eight, Michael was a statistic. He was the guy who peaked in high school. The Quarterback who threw three interceptions in the State Semifinals and blew out his knee trying to tackle the safety on the return. Scholarship gone. Confidence gone.
He had spent the last twenty years drifting. A dead-end sales job. A divorce he saw coming but didn't fight. Parents who had died while he was too "busy" feeling sorry for himself to visit them.
He looked at the passenger seat. A bag of lukewarm fast food and a DVD box set of Young Sheldon. That was his life now. Comfort food and comfort TV. He liked the show because it was simple. The stakes were low. Just a family trying to make it work in Texas. He envied Georgie Cooper sometimes—the kid wasn't book smart, but he had hustle. He had a family that was chaotic, sure, but they were there.
Michael checked his watch. 11:45 PM.
"Just get home," he muttered, rubbing his tired eyes. "Eat the burger. Watch the show. Sleep. Repeat."
He entered the intersection. The light was green.
He never saw the truck.
There was a blinding flash of headlights from the left, a deafening screech of tires, and then... weightlessness.
Pain flared—hot and absolute—for exactly one second. Then, the world turned off.
***
[SYSTEM ERROR]
[SOUL RETRIEVAL INITIATED]
***
When Michael opened his eyes, there was no pain. There was no rain. There was no Honda Civic.
There was only white.
He was sitting in a comfortable leather chair in a room that had no walls, just an infinite expanse of white mist. Sitting across from him, behind a mahogany desk, was a Being.
It didn't look like God. It looked like a middle-aged man in a sharp business suit, casually shuffling a deck of cards.
"Rough way to go," the Being said, not looking up. "T-boned by a drunk driver. You didn't even have time to brake."
Michael looked down at his body. He was wearing the same cheap suit he'd worn to work. "I'm dead?"
"Very," the Being said. He stopped shuffling and looked at Michael. His eyes were unsettling—like looking into a camera lens. "I am what you internet types call a R.O.B.—Random Omnipotent Being. I handle... overflows. And you, Michael, are a classic case of 'Unfulfilled Potential.' It's clogging up the paperwork."
Michael slumped back in the chair. "So, what is this? Judgment day?"
"Performance review," the Being corrected. "You spent twenty years sulking about a knee injury, Michael. You pushed your wife away. You let your mom die alone in a hospital because you were 'too sad' to handle it."
Michael flinched. That one hurt more than the truck. "I know," he whispered, his throat tight. "I know I messed up. I just... I didn't know how to fix it."
"Well," the Being said, leaning back. "Good news. We're running a promotion. Reincarnation is currently free of charge for sad, pathetic cases like yourself."
Michael blinked. "Reincarnation? Like... those anime shows?"
"Like life, Michael. A second lap. But you don't get to go back as you. You go somewhere else. A fictional world." The Being waved a hand, and a hologram appeared in the air. It cycled through images: Dragons, Spaceships, Zombies. "Most guys pick these. They want to be heroes. They want harems."
Michael shook his head immediately. "No."
The Being paused. "No?"
"I don't want to fight dragons," Michael said, his voice trembling slightly. "I don't want to save the galaxy. I just... I want a family." He looked up, eyes wet. "I want a dad I can actually talk to. I want a mom I can help. I want a brother I can look out for. I just want to do it right this time."
The Being smiled. It was a genuine smile. "A Slice-of-Life man. Rare."
"Send me to Young Sheldon," Michael said.
The Being raised an eyebrow. "Specifically that one? Why? It's just 1980s Texas. No magic. No monsters."
"Exactly," Michael said. "It's quiet. And I want to be Georgie."
"The idiot brother?"
"He's not an idiot," Michael defended. "He's street smart. But he's lazy. He wastes his potential. If I were him... I could help that family. I could save George Sr. from the heart attack. I could make sure Missy doesn't grow up feeling lonely. I could be the big brother Sheldon actually needs."
The Being tapped the desk. "Approved. You will be inserted into George Cooper Jr., two years prior to the start of the series canon. Giving you some runway to change things."
"Thank you," Michael breathed, feeling a weight lift off his soul.
"However," the Being added, "The multiverse has rules. You need a 'Perk.' A cheat. Just one. Standard procedure."
Michael thought about it. He thought about the rain. The radio. The interview.
"Football," Michael said. "I want to be good at football. Not just good... I want to be special. I want to play like Patrick Mahomes. That improvisation. That vision. If I can play like that, I can get a scholarship. I can take care of the family financially."
The Being snapped his fingers. "Done. The Mahomes Template. But be warned: I'm giving you the software, not the hardware. You'll have the instincts of an MVP, but Georgie Cooper is a scrawny kid who eats Cheetos. If you try to throw a 50-yard bomb on Day 1, you'll rip your arm out of its socket. You have to earn the body."
"I will," Michael vowed. "I'll work harder than anyone."
"Excellent." The Being stood up. "One last thing. I've taken the liberty of... adjusting the world slightly. To keep things interesting. A few extra variables."
Michael frowned. "Variables? Like what?"
The Being waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, just some expanded family trees. Some old friends drifting back into town. You know... flavor."
The Being smiled a smile that was a little too wide. He didn't mention that George Sr. had an old drinking buddy living in a Malibu beach house. He didn't mention that Mary Cooper had some neurotic cousins in New York who were always on a "break." Or that a certain fast-talking mother and daughter were about to make headlines in Connecticut.
"Good luck, Michael," the Being said. "Don't waste it this time."
He snapped his fingers.
The white room vanished. The silence shattered.
And then... the smell of bacon.