“You called me… then died? You still have unresolved conflicts to take care of. So I’ll help you and keep her from taking you. Don’t expect this again—it goes against balance. Now wake up.”
The hazy female voice stopped, and my eyes opened. My whole body ached. I sat up and looked around. Tall trees surrounded me, their roots tangled in thick, dark-green bushes nearly two feet high. Beneath me lay healthy grass glistening with dew.
My eyes adjusted to the sunlight filtering through the canopy. I searched for the source of the voice, but no one was there. Then came the sounds—gunfire. Not modern gunfire. I recognized it from the history videos we watched in class. Muskets. Cannons.
Shouts. Metal clashing.
I stood slowly and realized—I wasn’t wearing clothes.
Wait… how did I get here? I got hit by a car. I remember the screech, the pain, and then—
I checked myself. No bruises. No broken bones. Just the ache, deep and dull.
Did I dream it all?
Against my better judgment—doing what white people do in horror movies, as Rhonda would say—I walked toward the noise. I parted the bushes and stared.
It looked like a real Revolutionary War battle.
British troops in blue pressed forward, their muskets firing in unison while the Colonials stumbled back. Each side took turns shooting, and I couldn’t help thinking how dumb that was. They called it gentlemanly combat. War was war. Not that I was violent—but I loved a good wrestling match, and this? This was chaos with rules.
I should’ve been terrified. Instead, I thought it was cool.
I’d seen live reenactments before, but this? Whoever brought me here had a sense of humor—or knew me well. Out of all periods, the Colonial era was my favorite. The Patriot was my comfort movie. My favorite Assassin’s Creed was the third one.
I knew it wasn’t great for people who looked like me. But still, there was something about the aesthetic. The birth of the country, flawed and all.
Then it hit me.
I was a Black boy, naked, in the 1700s.
I crouched lower. Better find clothes before someone mistakes me for a runaway slave.
A colonial soldier broke formation, sprinting toward me. Two British soldiers chased him—one with a tomahawk, the other a sword.
The colonial turned slightly, and I froze.
He was just a boy—my age, maybe younger.
They caught him. The sword went straight through his chest. Blood burst out like a red fountain. The tomahawk man grabbed the boy by the hair and scalped him in one brutal pull.
I dropped to my knees. My stomach twisted. The smell hit me next—iron and smoke.
“These damn traitors,” one soldier muttered. “Looks like it was just a boy.”
“Oh well. Must be desperate. Back to the line.”
I swallowed bile and backed away. That wasn’t a reenactment. That was real.
And that meant I wasn’t dreaming.
My brain raced. Am I in an isekai? Is this some divine punishment? Was that voice a god? A reaper?
Panic set in. My heart pounded. My instincts screamed run, so I did.
I ran for what felt like miles. The gunfire faded. The trees thinned. Eventually, I stumbled into a small settlement. It looked abandoned—or maybe asleep. Night was coming fast.
I crept along the treeline, trying to stay invisible. I needed clothes. Protection. Something to ground me.
The houses looked just like the ones in our history books—well, the paintings, anyway.
Then I spotted movement: a Black man working a field, and a white man on a porch in a wide-brimmed hat. I ducked behind a log. My pulse hammered in my ears.
That’s when I saw it—the Quaker Friends House.
My breath caught. I knew that place. My mom used to bring me to Bordentown every year to visit her friend who worked at the historical society. The Quaker House was built in 1740. Thomas Paine once lived here.
But that was 2024.
This was… 1776, maybe?
My paranoia kicked into high gear. I kept moving, scanning shadows. The last thing I needed was to get captured.
Finally, near the river, I found a small house with clothes hanging out to dry. The garments looked simple—plain fabrics, worn edges. Poor family. Perfect.
I checked for dogs or traps, then moved fast—pants first. Knee-length breeches that fit surprisingly well. A long, loose white shirt. Shoes—low-heeled leather with buckles. I even found woolen stockings.
I whispered a guilty apology to whoever owned them and slipped back into the woods.
When I found a small clearing, I collapsed into the grass, breathing hard.
“Well,” a voice said softly, “at least you’re resourceful.”
I spun, panic sharp in my chest.
A Black girl stepped out from behind a tree. She wore flowing robes of red, burgundy, and purple, and on her head rested the skull of a buffalo.
Her walk reminded me of April’s confidence, her skin tone like Tracy’s warmth, her eyes the same deep blue as Jessica’s.
With every barefoot step she took, the river rippled as if greeting her. Rain began to pour, hissing against the leaves.
She stopped inches from me, tilting her head.
“Well,” she said. “Let’s get this over with. Are you my master?”