The next morning, sunlight slipped through the forest trees and poured into the modest cabin.
Samuel sat on the roof, cross-legged, staring out at the sea of green that had been his entire world for the past few years. The trees whispered softly as the wind passed through them, the smell of pine and fresh dirt grounding him in the moment.
His peace was interrupted when he heard his uncle Michael shout from below, "Sam! Time to look at the houses!"
Samuel hopped down from the roof, landing lightly in the grass. He tugged at one of his so-called new shirts—though it already looked like it had survived a small war. The collar was stretched, a thread dangled from the sleeve, and a smudge of sap clung stubbornly to the fabric. "So much for new," he muttered, brushing at the stain as he made his way toward his uncle's voice.
They hopped in the truck, and Michael laughed when he noticed Samuel's shirt. "Looks like you need another new one."
Samuel chuckled. "Honestly, still an upgrade," he said, tugging at the fraying sleeve. Maybe if I keep buying new shirts, I'll start seeing more people I recognize, he thought, the idea sending a strange buzz of anticipation through him.
The drive to the city was chaotic. LA traffic was worse than Samuel could've imagined—three near-death experiences in twenty minutes, and enough honking to give him a migraine. He started to think maybe the forest wasn't so bad after all.
They arrived at the first location: a tall apartment complex, ten stories high. Samuel peered up at it from the street. The sun reflected off the glass windows, giving the building an almost blinding shine, like it was trying a little too hard to be impressive. The hum of distant traffic mixed with the occasional siren in the background—an ever-present reminder they were near the city's pulse.
The entrance was sleek and modern, with a row of potted plants that looked too fake to fool anyone. Behind the glass doors, a doorman leaned against his post, eyes glued to his newspaper. Somewhere up above, a dog barked nonstop, its yaps echoing between buildings.
Samuel and Michael exchanged a look.
"No way in hell," Samuel muttered.
Michael didn't even try to argue. "Yeah, hard pass."
They didn't even bother getting out of the truck. Samuel continued scanning the exterior—glossy tile, cold lighting, too many windows facing too many people.
"It feels like the kind of place where someone knocks on your door to complain you walk too loud," he said.
Michael nodded. "Or you breathe too loud."
They shared a quiet laugh, already pulling back onto the road before anyone inside realized they'd arrived.
This wasn't home. Not even close.
So they quickly moved on to the second house, hoping for something that actually felt like a place to live—not just exist.
During the drive to the second house Michael explained his new job as they drove between locations. He wouldn't be flying daily, but he had to stay within ten minutes of the helicopter base in case of emergency pursuits or fire reconnaissance. "They need people who can react fast," he said. "And my new boss—Captain Zoe Anderson—she doesn't mess around. It's Mid-Wilshire precinct. They take things seriously."
He had a deep respect for his uncle. Michael wasn't flashy or loud—he was steady, and he did things because they mattered. In his own way, Samuel looked up to him more than he'd ever admit.
As the truck rumbled toward their destination, Samuel stared out the window, his mind drifting. There were so many cop shows in my old life, he thought. The odds that this precinct isn't part of some show are basically zero. He glanced over at Michael. With my luck, it'll probably be the one where they blow up a car every Thursday.
When they pulled into the next neighborhood, it felt familiar. Quiet, with tree-lined streets and cozy houses. The kind of place that looked peaceful from the outside. Michael parked the truck and pointed at a house just ahead. "This looks better. More space, and somewhat peaceful."
They walked into the open house. The realtor stood beside another family, chatting and gesturing toward the rooms. Samuel didn't catch the man's face right away.
But when he did, his expression twisted in confusion. Wait a minute… I know that face. Samuel narrowed his eyes as the realtor turned and greeted them with a bright, overconfident smile.
"Hi! Name's Gil Thorpe. Best in the region, just ask literally everyone. I don't sell homes—I launch dreams."
No way, Samuel thought. That's the gym teacher from 21 Jump Street. The one who turned out to be the secret drug dealer.
That name—Gil Thorpe—didn't match, but the face did. And now he was selling houses?
Samuel blinked, stunned for a moment. This world is weirder than I thought.
Snapping out of his thoughts, he realized his uncle was asking what he thought of the house. Samuel wandered through the rooms, peeked into the garden, and nodded. "Looks good."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "Just good?"
Samuel shrugged, glancing once more at the big backyard. "Big yard for archery, lots of space inside. It's quiet. Peaceful. I don't know… it feels right."
Michael looked around the living room, then back at him. "You think we could live here?"
Samuel took another look at the sunlight filtering in through the windows and the way the house sat tucked into the neighborhood like it had always belonged there.
After a moment. "I think we could."
As they wrapped up the paperwork and stepped outside, Samuel took one last look at the house. It was bigger than what he was used to, with plenty of rooms, tall ceilings, and a solid structure that felt… permanent. But what really sealed it for him was the backyard—wide, open, and surrounded by just enough fence and greenery to offer privacy. Perfect for practicing with a bow, he thought. Finally a space where I won't be hitting tree trunks or scaring squirrels.
But it wasn't just the size or the space that stuck with him.
It was the stillness.
There was no forest breeze here, no wild energy—but the calmness wrapped around him in a way he hadn't expected. And for some reason… it felt familiar. Not in a "he'd been here before" kind of way, but more like déjà vu. A flicker of something buried deep in his memory.
Nostalgia? he thought. Why? I've never been here before.
But the feeling stayed, nestled somewhere in his chest, like a whisper that this place might matter someday.
Samuel didn't know why.
But for the first time in a long time, he wasn't thinking about escaping.
One month later, after wrapping up everything in the forest cabin, the final night had arrived. The familiar creaks of the old wood and the distant sounds of the forest surrounded them one last time.
That night, as the quiet settled in, Michael glanced over at Samuel. "So... tomorrow, we're actually moving out of here. Our last night in the cabin. How are you feeling?"
Samuel stood by his bedroom window, looking out at the trees swaying gently in the moonlight. "Weird. It's going to be different."
"I know it is," Michael said, leaning against the doorframe. "But you've got more to offer this world than hiding in the woods."
Samuel nodded slowly. "I think I'll miss the quiet the most. The woods… they made sense. Out there, it was just me, the trees, and the wind." He paused, glancing back at Michael. "But now I have to go to high school next week. That's what really has me worried."
Michael gave a short laugh. "You'll be fine. Just remember—you're not alone in this."
Later that evening, after his uncle had gone to bed, Samuel sat on his bed in the dark, staring out the window. He thought about how much had changed. About the crash, the wheel, the clues, and the strange joy of chasing mysteries through a world stitched together by fiction.
This world used to feel like a puzzle I wasn't supposed to solve, he thought. Now, it feels like the beginning of something.
He smiled to himself. Maybe this is the life I always wanted but thought was impossible. I've really become part of this world. And now... I'll carve out my part in its history.
DUNPHY'S POV
Claire sat at the kitchen table, swirling a glass of wine as the late afternoon sun lit up the Dunphy house. She sighed, her thoughts drifting until Phil walked in holding his ipod.
"You won't believe it," he said dramatically, sitting across from her.
"What?" Claire asked, barely glancing up.
"Gil Thorpe sold the house across the street."
Claire looked up now, eyebrows raised. "Really? He sold that one with the big yard?"
Phil nodded solemnly. "Yeah. I was going to pitch to them, but Gil got there first."
"Well, that happens. It's not like you lose sleep over every house sold in the city."
Phil looked wounded. "But this is our street, Claire. This is Dunphy turf."
Just then, Haley walked by and muttered, "Maybe Gil's just better at it."
Phil gasped. "Traitor!"
Luke ran through the living room at full speed, holding a bb gun . "Hands up!"
Claire barely dodged whatever flew by and snapped, "Luke! Upstairs! Now!"
Phil shook his head. "Kids today. No respect for turf wars."
Claire smirked. "So, who's moving in?"
Phil leaned in like it was a big secret. "I think it's a father and a son. Gil said they're kind of reclusive."
Claire raised an eyebrow. "Hmm. Hopefully not axe murderers."
Phil stood dramatically and declared, "Don't worry. I'll welcome them personally—with a magic trick."
Claire sighed. "Please don't embarrass us, Phil."
"Too late," Haley called from upstairs.