Chapter 10: "Level 3 Unlocked"
March 11, 2000 – Los Angeles, California
Richard's POV
Today I just turned 7.
And I don't say this with the tone of a kid showing off candles on a cake, but rather like someone marking a checkpoint in a game.
In the last two years, I've grown 11 inches. I'm now 4'4", taller than almost all of my classmates, and some even look at me as if I were already a teenager infiltrated in elementary school. The doctors throw out technical phrases and smile as if I were a biological prodigy. They say if I keep this pace, I'll surpass 6'1" by the time I reach adulthood. I just think, "Aha, spoiler unlocked. Thanks for the leak, doc."
Of course, I know that height comes from my grandfather, Jackson Evans, the guy who walks like he's a meter taller than everyone else, even though they're the same height. But the funny thing is, I'm not obsessed with height. Not numbers, percentiles, or medical records. What really matters to me isn't how much I grow in centimeters, but how much I grow in experiences.
In two years, I've understood something crucial: this world isn't a sitcom where you expect to laugh in every episode, nor a video game where you race alone against the clock.
No.
This is a co-op campaign. And I have a party to protect.
At school, Ethan is no longer "the skinny guy with glasses" but my teammate. I defend him in the hallways, and he covers for me on projects. Sometimes he tells me I'm like his shield, but I tell him not to be stupid, that he's my compass. Because even if it doesn't seem like it, his way of seeing the world reminds me that it's not all about strength or IQ: sometimes, just having a heart is enough.
On Saturdays, at the orphanage, I'm still "the big brother" to Lily and Tommy. Lily clings to me with that twinkle in her eyes that compels me to never, ever let her down. Tommy… well, he now measures me with respect. Before, he was the serious child who doubted whether I'd ever return; now he's the boy who trusts that I will always return. And Susan, with her calm words, remains my emotional checkpoint: no matter how much I grow, her words always manage to reset my anxiety.
At home, Margaret insists on treating me as if I were half child, half wayward prince. Tom, the driver, teaches me more in a twenty-minute ride than some teachers do in an entire semester. And my grandfather… he's the raid leader, the serious leader, the one who sets the course without needing to raise his voice. Sometimes he remains silent, watching me train, or participate in school, and I feel that strange mix of pride and expectation: as if she were saying to me wordlessly, "Don't waste what you are."
And yes, I have advantages that not everyone has: an IQ that seems hacked, a physique that responds as if I were in expert mode, and a charisma that, although it makes me laugh to admit it, makes me the star of every social scene. But what I've learned in these two years is that stats are of little use if you don't use them to take care of your own.
Today, at 7 years old, I know that my mission isn't just to survive, nor to boast that I can win alone. My mission is to make sure Ethan doesn't break, that Lily never loses hope, that Tommy feels like he has a real brother, that Susan sees that her words made a difference. That my grandfather knows he wasn't wrong to bet on me.
So yes:
I've unlocked level 3.
And this time, I don't plan on playing on easy mode.
> "If this is my New Game Plus... I'm going to grind until I become the best version of myself. For me. And for my party."
—
You know, sometimes I lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, and think about how weird all this is.
Three years ago, no one wanted to be called my family. My mother left me like I was a useless file on her desk, something she could drag to the trash without hesitation.
For a long time, I thought that was all I deserved: abandonment.
That my role in this life was to be the lonely NPC, wandering aimlessly through quests that would never begin.
But now… now it's not like that.
My Grandpa Jackson looks at me with those steely eyes that hide fire. He doesn't hug me often, he doesn't say sweet nothings, but every time he coaches me or corrects me, I feel like he's saying, "You're mine, and you'll never be alone again."
Margaret treats me like I'm her lifelong grandson. And while at first I was uncomfortable with her calling me "Richie," now I feel like that nickname covers me like a warm blanket. It's a reminder that I belong here, that I'm not just a guest.
At the orphanage, Susan taught me what unconditional trust means. She never asked why I was abandoned, never tried to pity me. She was just there, giving me a safe space. And even though I don't tell her, sometimes I look at her and it hurts... because she reminds me of what I never had: a mother who stayed.
That pain no longer tears me apart. Now I treat it like an invisible tattoo that stays with me, but doesn't define me.
What defines me is what I do with it.
That's why, when Lily runs to hug me, I promise myself I'll never leave her alone.
When Ethan leans on me, I know it's my duty to never let go.
When my grandfather trusts me that I can do more, I strive to show him he wasn't wrong.
Trust is like an extra life in a video game: you don't get it for free, and if you lose it, it doesn't come back.
I already know what it's like to lose her. And that's why I value the one I have now so much.
Maybe I don't understand everything about what it means to be a family, but I do know one thing:
Family isn't the one who brings you into the world, but the one who stays to walk through it with you.
—
Every day starts early at Los Angeles City College, in a program designed for gifted children. For many, it would be an overwhelming challenge; for me, it's become a new map to explore.
I'm not exaggerating when I say that my knowledge is close to that of a college professor. Science, literature, history, math, even philosophy—each subject feels like a level already completed, a scenario I already know. I could advance grades, skip stages, be in classes with college students, and not feel out of place. But I'm in no hurry.
I've learned that not everything is about "gaining experience" quickly, like in a farming video game. Sometimes, the important thing is to stay with your party, share the mission, make sure everyone crosses the map with you.
That's why I prefer to stay here, with my classmates. I don't want to be "the humiliating child prodigy," the one who answers before everyone else and leaves everyone else behind. No. I want to be something else. The one who teaches, the one who explains patiently, the one who makes classes fun.
Sometimes, when a classmate gets stuck on an equation or doesn't understand a paragraph of Shakespeare, I'll lean in and find another way to explain it: with drawings, comparisons, even jokes. And when their eyes light up because they suddenly get it, I feel like the effort is worth it.
That moment is better than any A on a test. It's like watching someone unlock a new level thanks to you.
"Thanks, Richard," Ethan tells me, when I translate an algebra problem into "superhero language."
I shrug and respond with a half-smile, "Nah, I'm just your official math translator into the Marvel-verse."
The laughter that comes from such silly things changes the atmosphere. I'm no longer the "weird kid who knows too much"; I'm the one who shares, the one who makes light work of the pressure.
And although I'm sometimes tempted to show off everything I can, I remind myself that intelligence is useless if it doesn't build something for others.
I think that's why I love being here so much: because every day isn't just an exam for me, it's an opportunity to grow with them. And deep down, I think it's also a way to heal the loneliness that once consumed me.
Because now I don't learn just for myself. I learn for everyone.
—
One random Tuesday, while we were solving geometry problems, Professor Green stopped by my table. She watched me help Sarah, one of my quieter classmates, who tended to fall behind with numbers.
"Interesting method, Richard," she commented, raising an eyebrow.
I was using colored counters to show Sarah how angles worked, like Tetris pieces.
"Triangles are more fun if you think of them as a puzzle," I replied casually.
Sarah smiled shyly, managing to solve the problem on her own.
The teacher was silent for a few seconds, then said to me in a voice that sounded more serious than usual:
"You have a brilliant intellect, we already knew that. But what really impresses me is your ability to teach. It's unusual for someone your age. You inspire rather than intimidate."
I didn't know what to reply. I just shrugged, although inside I felt a strange warmth, different from personal pride. It was… shared satisfaction.
---
That same night, in the study of the house, Jackson was reading the newspaper with his glasses on, while I was flipping through a science fiction book. The silence was comfortable, until he put the newspaper down and looked at me with that grandfatherly expression that still intimidated me a little.
"I got a call from your teacher Green today," he said, straight to the point.
I looked up, preparing for the worst.
"Did I screw up?"
He let out a small laugh.
"Quite the opposite. He says you're not only one of the most advanced, but that you help others. That you help them learn."
I shrank back in the chair, uncomfortable with so much praise.
"I don't want them to think I'm a robot coming to make them feel bad. I'd rather... well, they feel they can count on me."
Jackson watched me silently. His gaze was hard, but not cold. Rather, he seemed to be committing every word to memory.
"That's maturity, Richard. Your mother…" He stopped, took a deep breath, "your mother would be proud to hear you speak like that."
I didn't know what to say. I clutched the book to my chest and lowered my gaze. The "mom" topic was always fragile ground, but this time it didn't hurt as much. This time, it felt like a bridge.
"I want you to understand something," Jackson continued, his voice low but firm. "It's not enough to be strong or smart. What defines a man is what he builds for others. And you… you've already started building."
I nodded silently. For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like an orphan trying to fit in. I felt part of something, part of someone.
—
Jackson's POV
The gym was filled with children's voices, sneakers bouncing against the hardwood, and whistles that sounded like orders from a barracks. Next to me, Jay Pritchett chewed gum with the same intensity he used to bite back his anger during army drills.
"Look at that kid," he said, pointing at Richard on the court. "He's like lightning."
He wasn't lying. My grandson moved with a confidence that belied a child his age. Tall for his seven years, agile as a teenage athlete, he dominated the ball while also distributing the play, encouraging his teammates whenever they hesitated. It wasn't just talent: it was leadership.
Jay let out a snort, half amused, half resigned.
"You know, Jack... if Mitchell had had half that energy, he would have saved me from arguments."
He said it with a half smile, but I saw that hidden glimmer of envy. It wasn't malice, it was a father's desire to see his son reflect the passion he himself carried in his blood.
"Not everyone is born for the court," I replied, without taking my eyes off Richard. "Mitchell has other gifts."
Jay shrugged, but then laughed.
"Yeah, right. Gifts like correcting my grammar at the dinner table. One day he's going to give me a wrapped dictionary for Christmas."
He made me laugh too, but inside, I was still staring at my grandson. Every pass, every jump, every word of encouragement to his team reminded me how extraordinary he was. He wasn't just strong or fast. He had that charisma that made anyone part of his group.
The game ended with a victory for his team. As the kids ran to celebrate, Richard wasn't the first to raise his arms in triumph. He was the first to go to the kid who had barely made a basket and pat him on the back.
"You did it! I told you you could."
That detail, that gesture, was worth more than any trophy.
Jay noticed it too.
"That kid... he's got the spark, Jack. Like you in your prime."
His tone no longer held envy, but something more sincere: respect.
I nodded, my chest puffing with a pride I don't usually show.
And I silently thought about the promise I made to my daughter: to take care of him, to give him a future. Seeing him there, surrounded by friends and shining with that light of his own, I knew that maybe Richard wasn't just destined to survive... but to lead.
—
Richard's POV
From the court, I looked up just as Jay and Grandpa exchanged that grown-up look that feels like a secret language.
Jay was smiling with a "that kid is amazing" face, and Grandpa... well, Grandpa was serious as always, but his eyes gave him away: they shone with pride.
I don't know why, but I froze for a second.
That kind of thing doesn't happen in the orphanage. No one looks at you like that. No one thinks you're really special.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to break the tension with a joke, because... well, that's me.
I ran up to them, still sweating, and blurted out,
"What are you looking at? Are you already planning to sell my 'playing rights' to the Lakers? I'm telling you, my release clause is very expensive."
Jay burst out laughing and ruffled my hair as if he had ten children waiting to do the same.
"You have the ego of a professional, that's for sure."
Grandpa rolled his eyes, but couldn't hide the curl of his lips.
"Good game, Richard."
That was it. Two words. But coming from him, they were like a gold trophy.
In the car ride home, I stared out the window, remembering that look between them.
For the first time, I thought... maybe I'm not just a gambler in this world.
Maybe I'm someone worth betting on.
---
That night, after a shower and dinner, I took refuge in my room with a comic book.
Everything seemed normal: the lamp on, the bed made, the silence of that enormous house that sometimes overwhelms me.
But then I heard a knock at the door.
It was Grandpa. He came in with his hands in his pockets, as if he were debating whether to speak or remain silent.
"Good game today," he repeated, in that dry tone he uses when he wants to sound casual.
I nodded, trying not to sound anxious.
"Thanks, Grandpa."
There was an awkward silence. And suddenly, he sighed, came over, and sat in the chair across from my desk.
"I don't usually say things like this, Richard... but I'm proud of you."
Something loosened in my chest. As if someone had found an old lock inside me and, out of nowhere, opened it.
I tried to joke around so I wouldn't cry.
"Are you recording this, Margaret?" —I said, staring at the ceiling as if there were cameras.
Grandpa laughed faintly, that deep laugh that almost never escapes.
—You talk too much. But… you remind me of your mother. Not because of what you know or what you do… but because you had to be strong long before a child should.
I swallowed. It was the first time I'd heard him mention my mother like that, not with pain in his eyes, but with affection.
—Grandpa… —I whispered, lowering my gaze. —Thank you.
He patted me on the shoulder, firm but warm.
—Rest easy, Richie. Tomorrow is another day.
And when he left, I stared at the watch on my wrist.
I didn't need neon lights or video game voices to know:
I had just unlocked a hidden achievement.
> "Pride unlocked: Family Bond Level 1."
I closed my eyes with a smile. That was my real power-up.
—
Two days later
That absurd charisma I developed in the gacha… it works like a magnet.
In class, there's always someone who wants to sit near me, even if it's just to hear me crack a joke or explain an exercise with strange examples that turn math into an episode of Dragon Ball.
At practice, everyone expects my initiative: not because I'm the best, but because they trust that I'll make them feel part of the team.
And in any group… no matter where I am, I end up making just the right comment that sparks laughter, diffuses tensions, or breaks awkward silences.
I literally walk like a sitcom protagonist in the middle of real life.
The difference is that I know it's not a coincidence.
Because behind every joke, every wink, every gesture, there's a purpose: to ensure that no one is left out, that no one feels that emptiness I know all too well.
When I see someone sitting alone in the cafeteria, my internal radar goes off. I approach, joke, invite them to play. And when, suddenly, that isolated child smiles and integrates… I feel like they're worth more than any trophy or game won.
Sometimes they ask me:
"Richard, how do you make everyone like you?"
I laugh, make a TV star gesture, and reply:
"Easy, I'll cast a sitcom spell on them."
They laugh, but the truth is, my "spell" isn't magic: it's a choice.
I chose not to repeat the pattern of abandonment. I chose to use this charisma as a bridge, not a pedestal.
And little by little, I realize that I'm no longer just the child who wants to survive in this new world. I'm building something bigger: a space where others feel safe too.
> Perhaps that's my true "role" in this cooperative campaign: not just to shine, but to light the way for others.
—
Scene: School Gymnasium
One Friday afternoon, the gymnasium was divided into two groups: those who wanted to play basketball and those who preferred to stay in the stands, each to their own devices.
I was in the middle, holding the ball and feeling like the energy was off.
Some kids were arguing about who should be captain, others were already yawning on the benches.
"So what?" one asked, frustrated. "Shall we play or not?"
I smiled, dribbling the ball on the floor.
"Of course we play. But this isn't about 'good guys versus bad guys.' Today we're going to mix it up: each team has a veteran and a rookie, and everyone has to make at least one assist before shooting."
There were laughs and protests.
"Who decides that?" another asked.
I winked at him and raised my hand like a TV host.
—Obviously me. I'm the referee, the coach... and the walking sitcom of this gym.
The laughter instantly lowered the tension. And suddenly, everyone was on their feet, moving around, forming teams, joking around. Those who were separated in the stands joined in too, because I went straight to them:
—Come on, you're the secret reinforcements. Without you, there's no plot twist.
The game started, and while it wasn't the most competitive, it was the most fun. Every pass counted, every assist was celebrated as if it were the NBA Finals. At one point, one of the shyest players sank his first basket and the entire gym exploded in applause. I lifted him up on my shoulders as if he'd won the world championship.
From the doorway of the gym, my Grandpa Jackson watched silently.
He didn't say anything, but that half-smile of his gave him away. It was the same one he wore when he talked about his hospitals, his achievements... only this time it was directed at me.
Later, as we were driving home, he simply commented,
"You know, kid... not everyone is born to be a leader. But some, like you, are born to make others become better."
I pretended not to be affected, looked out the window, and replied playfully,
"So I'm like an experienced buff for the team, right?"
He burst out laughing, but between the lines... I understood what he was really saying.
—
Saturday
A year ago, Lily and Tommy were adopted.
That day is still etched in my memory as if someone had put the scene on repeat.
They were crying profusely, clinging to me as if the new world opening up before them was too big and strange. I, on the other hand, smiled with all my might. Not because it didn't hurt—on the contrary, deep down I felt like a part of my chest was being ripped out—but because I wanted their last image of me that day to be bright and secure. I didn't want them to think for a second that I was losing them, or that they were losing me.
I kept telling myself: "If I cry, they'll think this is goodbye. But if I smile, they'll understand this is just a change of scenery."
I didn't lose them.
That was the first lesson life taught me about family: it's not measured by shared walls or last names.
We keep seeing each other.
Each visit is like a special episode of a series that never ends. We rush in, hug each other so tightly it feels like our bones are cracking, and in seconds we're back in our universe of inside jokes, made-up games, and secrets no one else understands.
We keep calling each other.
Sometimes at night, when the house is quiet, the phone rings and I hear their voices. Lily, with her sweet tone, asking if I've eaten or if I've studied, as if she were my older sister even though she's younger; Tommy, with his nervous laugh, trying to tell me jokes that aren't always funny, but are worth gold to me.
We keep treating each other the same.
In our hearts, we're still a team. They know that, even though another family adopted them, I never stopped being their brother. And I know that, even though I have a grandfather who now takes care of me and a new home, a part of me will always belong to those two.
Sometimes, of course, the pain returns. It's inevitable. There are nights when I wonder what it would be like if we still lived under the same roof, if we'd wake up together on Saturdays to watch cartoons, or if we'd argue over who gets to shower first. And in those moments, I feel the pain of their absence. But I also smile, because I know that what we had and what we still have is real.
Being brothers doesn't depend on sharing a roof or blood.
It depends on promises.
It depends on those laughs that no one else can imitate.
It depends on hugs that, even if a year or a lifetime passes, are never forgotten.
And that certainty... that silent promise we made to each other the day I saw them leave... gives me the strength to continue building my own path. Because, in the end, no matter how much the map changes: they will always be my party.
—
That's why I continue to go to the California Children's Home every Saturday. That place is, and always will be, my sanctuary.
It's not a drab, run-down place, as many imagine when they hear the word orphanage. Here, the hallways are clean, the walls are painted in bright colors, and the courtyard has courts and playgrounds that look like they've been in a well-kept park. The libraries have shelves full of books, the classrooms are stocked with toys and educational materials, and there's even a small music room where the more curious can try out old, but perfectly maintained, instruments.
Every corner breathes life. And every Saturday I walk through those doors, I feel the same family warmth that has embraced me since I was a child.
I play with the little ones on the court, organizing basketball games where the backboards gleam with fresh paint and the ball bounces hard against the floor. Although I could easily beat them, I prefer to invent absurd rules so everyone has their moment of glory. The laughter heard when one of them scores is more valuable than any triumph.
With the children who still believe in magical worlds, I become a storyteller. We gather in the reading room, on soft cushions, and with an open book, I invent alternative endings, kingdoms that don't appear on the pages, and heroes who look suspiciously like themselves. Their faces lit with emotion make me feel like, in some way, I'm giving them bits of hope.
I teach the older ones what I know. Some seek me out for help with math, others challenge me on the court, and a few just want to talk about life. I listen to them, guide them, and, without them realizing it, I pass on what I've learned: that no matter where you come from, you can always build toward where you're going.
And then there's Susan, the true heart of the place. She oversees every detail with love and discipline. Her smile is the invisible glue that holds this home together. When he sees me surrounded by children, his pride shines through, as if I were one of the fruits of his labor. And, in a way, I am.
The orphanage shaped me. Not only because it gave me a roof, food, and decent education, but because it gave me something even harder to find: a sense of belonging.
That's why, even though my life has changed now, I'll never stop returning. Because every Saturday, when a child hugs me and asks me to stay a little longer, I understand that I, too, am part of the history of this place.
And I promise myself that I will always, always, take care of the family I found within these walls.
—
That Saturday, after an impromptu game that ended with all the kids celebrating as if they'd just won the NBA, I sat on the patio catching my breath. The California sun was beating down softly, tinting the sky with golden hues.
Susan approached with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. She offered me one and sat next to me, with that expression that blends calm and authority.
"Richard," she said, looking at me with that gaze that seems to pierce through the walls you're trying to put up. "You've become someone very special to these kids."
"Uh, I just play with them," I replied, shrugging, trying to make light of the matter.
She smiled, as if she'd heard that excuse a thousand times.
"No. It's not just that. You listen to them, you make them feel important. You have this way of giving them confidence... as if each of them were the protagonist of the story."
I remained silent. I wasn't used to someone describing me like that, as if I were more than just a lucky kid with quick reflexes.
"You're growing up fast, Richard," she continued. "Sometimes I'm afraid the orphanage can't hold you anymore, that the world will claim you too soon."
I looked down, clutching the glass in my hands. Part of me felt proud, another… vulnerable.
"I'll never stop coming, Susan. This place is part of me. You… are part of me."
She touched my shoulder gently, as only a mother knows how, even if I don't carry that title.
"I know, darling. But it still hurts a little to see you stop being 'my boy' and become someone who inspires others."
I didn't know how to respond. So I just stood there, staring up at the sky, my heart torn between gratitude and that strange nostalgia of feeling like, little by little, I was really growing up.
---
Jackson's POV
From the window of the orphanage's office, I saw Richard in the courtyard. The boy was sitting next to Susan, holding a glass of lemonade, listening and responding with a maturity that belied his seven years.
It wasn't the first time I'd watched him silently, but that afternoon something was different. The way Susan touched his shoulder, the way he didn't look away or hide behind a quick joke—it was like watching someone who understood, at his young age, what it means to belong.
I stood still, hands behind my back, feeling that strange mix of pride and nostalgia. Pride, because Richard radiated something few children possess: that ability to make others feel important. Nostalgia, because there was a part of me that wished someone else had been able to watch him grow up like that.
Susan spoke, and I didn't hear the words, but I saw the gestures. I saw Richard nod seriously, how he smiled with a touch of vulnerability he only showed in moments of trust. I saw her look at him tenderly, as if she were looking at her own child.
That hurt and reassured me at the same time. It hurt because it reminded me how much that lost bond can mean. It reassured me because, at least, my grandson wasn't alone in this world.
I took a deep breath. Sometimes, when I watch him, I feel like life gave me a second chance disguised as a restless, sarcastic child. And I promised myself something very simple: this time I won't fail.
I moved away from the window before he could spot me. Richard didn't need to see me there, watching like a sentry. What he did need was for me to continue being there, day after day, without disappearing. And I can give him that.
—
When Richard ran off with the little ones to organize a basketball game, I took the opportunity to approach Susan. She was clearing away empty glasses and lunch plates, with that natural calm that seemed to envelop the entire place.
"He's got enough energy for ten," I commented, without taking my eyes off the boy running, with the other children following him as if he were their captain.
Susan smiled with a sweet tiredness.
"And enough heart for twenty. It's incredible how quickly he managed to win everyone over. Some kids take months to trust... he, on the other hand, makes them follow him without realizing it."
I nodded, remaining silent for a few seconds. There was truth in her words, but also a subtext she didn't recognize.
"I watch him," I said finally, my voice low. "And every day he surprises me more. There's something about him... hard to explain."
Susan looked at me, raising an eyebrow.
"Afraid that he'll lose that 'something'?"
I didn't respond immediately. It wasn't fear I felt, it was a more complex mix: the certainty that this child deserved much more than what he'd received so far, and the burden of making sure he had it.
"Let's just say... I'm not going to let him go without what really matters."
She softened, as if she'd understood more than what I'd said.
"I'll always take care of him here, Jack. But I know with you... he has more than just a roof and food. He has a family."
That word echoed through me. Family. Not just any family, not just blood, but the kind built on everyday life, on promises kept.
Richard, on the court, had just made an impossible basket. The children applauded, and he raised his arms as if he were in the NBA finals. I smiled, but inside I repeated the same promise as always:
> This time, I won't fail.
—
Richard's POV
In these two years, I visited the three hospitals that represent Jackson's legacy, and each one left a different mark on me.
1. Laura Evans Memorial Hospital (Los Angeles):
The first time I walked in, the white marble and immaculate lighting made me feel like I was in a spaceship. Everything was neat, efficient, modern. I saw doctors moving as if they were part of a perfectly oiled machine, and patients receiving care with a warmth that money can't buy. Her name... "Laura Evans." I asked just once, and my grandfather's silence was enough to make me understand that there was a story there that hurt deeply. Since then, every time I pass through the entrance, I feel like I'm not walking into just any hospital, but into a silent monument to a promise.
2. Patriot Medical Center (New York):
That building smelled of the past. It had wood in the hallways, old paintings, nurses with more experience in their eyes than in their diplomas. There, as I walked through the rooms, I was struck by a strange déjà vu: it was like returning to my former life in the city. The streets of New York, the solitude of a cold apartment… and now, standing in the middle of a hospital my grandfather had built. It was as if my two existences collided in the same place. During those visits, I would listen to veteran doctors tell stories of impossible cases, and I felt like I was reading living chapters of a book I still didn't fully understand.
3. Golden Gate General (San Francisco):
If Memorial was heart and St. Patrick's was history, Golden Gate was strategy. There I saw my grandfather become more than just a doctor: he was a leader of businessmen, a man who negotiated multi-million-dollar budgets while simultaneously demanding human standards impossible to ignore. In those long meetings, where the numbers danced and the presentations shone, I remained silent, taking notes like a diligent student. I didn't understand everything, of course, but I grasped enough to realize that saving lives also had an invisible side: that of sustaining a system that made it possible.
I didn't just watch doctors racing against the clock or celebrating when a patient recovered. I also learned in their offices: how resources are distributed, how contracts are negotiated, how to plan ten years ahead.
There I understood something that a normal seven-year-old might not yet understand: medicine isn't just science, it's also vision.
And Jackson, my grandfather, hadn't built three hospitals just to make money. He had built a legacy that combined care, memory, and real impact.
Sometimes, when I saw him walking the halls, greeting doctors, reviewing reports, listening with the same seriousness to a surgeon as to a nurse on duty, I thought:
> "I didn't just inherit his last name. I'm inheriting a complete map of how something is built that transcends a person's life."
And that idea… made me feel small and big at the same time.
—
The California sun fell slantingly on the windows of Laura Evans Memorial Hospital, tinting the white marble with golden hues. I walked beside Jackson, who, as always, moved forward with a firm step, nodding briefly to every doctor, nurse, or administrator he passed in the hallway. Everyone respected him, but there was something else in their eyes: he wasn't just the owner; he was the man who had given this place its meaning.
"Why don't you ever tire of coming here?" I asked him, watching him adjust his tie with that perfectionist gesture of his.
"Because a hospital never sleeps," he replied, without pausing. "And because every decision I make here... saves or condemns lives. It's not something you can just turn off."
I was silent for a few seconds, staring at the logo engraved on the entrance wall: "Laura Evans Memorial Hospital." That name shone in the afternoon light as if it had a life of its own. I dared to ask the question I'd been biting my tongue about for so long.
"Who was Laura?"
Jackson paused, barely for a moment. His eyes were fixed on the marble, not on me. Then he took a deep breath and continued walking.
"Someone very important. Enough to have this place named after him."
I wanted to insist, but I understood there were boundaries that even trust hadn't yet crossed. So I changed my tone, as I usually did to ease awkward silences.
"Well, at least it sounds more imposing than 'Richard Evans Hospital.' Imagine: 'Come to Richard, we'll cure your cough and tell you jokes for free.'"
Jackson let out a short, dry, but genuine laugh. His first that afternoon.
"You have this habit of laughing even at serious things."
"It's my way of not being scared," I said, this time not joking.
He looked at me then, straight on, and I saw in his eyes something he rarely showed: pride mixed with nostalgia.
"That, Richard, is what will set you apart." Never lose the ability to transform fear into humor. But don't forget that behind every joke, there's a moment when you must be serious.
We continued walking. I watched him talk to a surgeon about the new MRI equipment, then to a nurse about shifts, and later to a young intern who looked at him as if he were standing in front of a hero.
And that was when I understood more clearly than ever: he hadn't chosen hospitals just for business. He had chosen hospitals because they were places where life and death clashed every day… and he had decided to always take the side of life.
I remained silent for the rest of the afternoon, but inside me, that answer had already reached me.
—
When I'm not in class or training, I lose myself in three places that have become my sanctuaries: the library at my grandfather's mansion, the library at Laura Evans Memorial Hospital, and the junior doctors' hostel, where I visit every couple of weeks as if I were an explorer infiltrated into an adult world.
There, among books and computers with screens that seem modern in the year 2000—but which I know are actually primitive—I feel like someone who has traveled back in time.
I remember seeing, in my previous life, technologies from 2025: artificial intelligence integrated into almost everything, quantum networks, algorithms capable of predicting human behavior with absurd levels of accuracy… Back then, I didn't understand anything; I was just another user. But now, with an IQ of 191 and a blank mind ready to absorb it all, those memories function like advanced treasure maps.
A computer textbook from this year 2000 explains basic concepts of Java or C++ as if they were the pinnacle of knowledge. I smile as I turn the pages, because in my head I already have an image of what will come next: Python expanding as the standard, the mobile app revolution, the era of big data. What for others is science fiction, for me are memories waiting their turn.
My grandfather sometimes comes in and finds me surrounded by books and screens.
"Richie... back in your data cave?" he says with that characteristic mix of irony and pride.
"Grandpa, this isn't a cave, it's my lab," I reply without looking up.
He smiles, but I notice he's watching me silently for a few seconds longer than usual. He doesn't fully understand what I'm doing, but he understands something more important: that I'm not wasting my time.
In those solitary hours, I study medicine, biology, business administration, economics, and also systems, programming, and coding. Every line of code I write on those green screens reminds me of what I saw in my other life. Before, I had no idea what those complicated interfaces meant; Now, with the context and intelligence to decode them, I feel like all future technology is within my reach; I just have to reconstruct it step by step.
The strangest thing is that I don't feel like a genius. I feel... ready.
Ready to use this knowledge not as an ego weapon, but as a tool to build something bigger: a better life for myself, for those around me, for my grandfather, who opened up a future for me that I didn't even know I had.
Because if there's one thing I learned from my previous life, it's that technology alone isn't enough. What matters is what you do with it, and above all, who you decide to share it with.
—
My life has become an almost surgical balance, as if each piece had found its exact place on a previously disordered board:
School and knowledge.
The classrooms of the advanced placement program at City College are my mental training ground. I learn and teach at the same time, not to prove I'm "the rare genius," but to share what I know and make others enjoy the learning journey. Every smile from a classmate who finally understands a problem thanks to my explanation is like unlocking a secret achievement.
Sports and discipline.
The judo mat teaches me humility, the fencing track gives me precision, and the basketball court reminds me that a leader is not measured by how many points they score, but by how they make the entire team play. And although I'm amused when Jay accompanies me and can't help but look on with a spark of healthy envy—because Mitchell was never a sports fan—the truth is that his laughter and jokes make me feel like I belong to something bigger than a team: I belong to an extended family.
Orphanage and family.
Every Saturday, the Children's Home remains my emotional checkpoint. The children run, play, and welcome me like an older brother or sister, and Susan always finds a way to give me that calm I didn't know I needed. Lily and Tommy, although adopted, still come when they can; we're still siblings because we choose to be, not because a piece of paper says so. And I never forget that that well-maintained place, full of resources, books, and games, was the first safe base I ever had.
Hospitals and learning about the future.
Accompanying my grandfather on his rounds at the Laura Evans Memorial Hall opened up a different world for me. It's not just medicine: it's organization, strategy, humanity. In New York and San Francisco, I learned that behind every hospital is an invisible army of people sustaining the lives of thousands. I feel small looking at it, but at the same time, part of something that transcends my age.
Technology and new tools.
This is where I most notice my secret advantage. What seemed like innovation in the year 2000 is, to me, déjà vu of the future. I remember touchscreens that don't yet exist, algorithms yet to be born, artificial intelligences only mentioned in science fiction novels. And with my IQ of 191, each memory becomes a logical framework I can understand and project. Silently, I build an invisible bridge between 2000 and 2025.
---
My grandfather is still demanding, sometimes harsh, but in his eyes there's something that needs no words: pride. Margaret insists on calling me "Richie," and what once made me blush now fills me with a warmth impossible to describe. Tom, the driver, with his road stories, teaches me that wisdom doesn't always come in expensive books. And Jay, with Shorty and Miles, form that comedy band that balances any excess of seriousness in my life.
And I... I keep playing.
But it's no longer the desperate game of survival like that delivery man lost in New York, nor the solitary game of an orphan who only trusted himself. Now it's a cooperative campaign. One in which everyone around me plays a role, and in which I understood that my mission is not to be the lone hero, but the companion who never fails.
At night, before going to sleep, I press the shiny watch on my wrist, like the save button on an invisible console, and think:
> "Level 3 unlocked: Knowledge, discipline, and family.
Date saved: March 11, 2000.
Goal: Keep learning. Keep growing. Keep playing in parties."
And I smile, because the delivery man I once was no longer haunts me. It's just an echo of what I don't want to be again. Now, at seven years old and with a whole world ahead of me, I know the real game is just beginning.
—