Chapter 3: The Schitt Family Dinner
The text from Roland came at 4:47 PM.
DINNER TONIGHT. YOUR MOTHER IS MAKING LASAGNA. 6:30. NO EXCUSES.
Jocelyn wasn't Mutt's mother. Stepmother, technically, though the distinction blurred after enough years. I knew that from the show, from background context that never mattered to the main plot.
It mattered now.
I stood in the barn, staring at the message, and felt something close to dread. Roland Schitt—the oblivious mayor, the inappropriate joke machine, the man who had no idea how to parent his adult son. Jocelyn—the warm one, the teacher, the woman who kept trying to build bridges Roland accidentally set on fire.
They're going to notice.
Not the transmigration. They wouldn't know about that. But they'd notice something different. Sons don't just transform overnight, not even sons who'd been drifting.
Or do they?
I thought about the show again. Mutt barely registered in the family scenes. Distant. Distracted. Present but not engaged. Maybe that gave me room to maneuver. Maybe the bar was so low that any change would read as personal growth instead of replacement.
Only one way to find out.
The drive to the Schitt residence took fifteen minutes in Mutt's truck, which coughed and shuddered like it was debating whether to cooperate. The house was small, well-maintained, the kind of place that said we're proud of what we have without screaming about it. Christmas lights still hung from the eaves—January 19th, which meant either Jocelyn celebrated late or Roland forgot to take them down.
Probably both.
I parked behind Roland's car and sat for a moment, gripping the steering wheel.
You've been here before. Mutt's been here before. This is his family, his life, his—
No. Your family now. Your life.
The front door opened before I could knock. Jocelyn stood there, smile already in place, the kind of smile that required genuine warmth to pull off.
"Mutt! You actually came!"
"Roland didn't really give me a choice."
She laughed—light, easy—and pulled me into a hug. The embrace lasted longer than I expected. Her hand patted my back twice before she let go.
"Come in, come in. Lasagna's almost ready."
The house smelled like garlic and tomato sauce and the particular warmth of occupied domestic space. I catalogued it without meaning to—my new brain's filing system working overtime—and tried to focus on the present moment instead of the data collection happening in my head.
Roland sat at the dining table, newspaper spread before him, reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked up when I entered.
"Son! You look like hell."
"Thanks, Dad."
"No, I mean it. You're pale. Are you getting enough sleep? I told you that barn gets too cold in winter. You need to insulate better. I could come over this weekend, help you—"
"I'm fine."
The words came out sharper than I intended. Roland blinked, something flickering across his face—surprise, maybe, at being cut off. The old Mutt probably wouldn't have interrupted.
Dial it back. You're supposed to be adjusting, not alerting.
"Sorry." I cleared my throat. "Long day. Didn't sleep well."
"See? I told Jocelyn you'd been off lately. She said I was imagining things, but I know my own son."
Do you?
Jocelyn swept in from the kitchen with a casserole dish, saving us both from that conversation. "Dinner! Sit, sit. Mutt, grab the salad from the fridge?"
I moved before my brain caught up with the instruction. The refrigerator was exactly where I expected it to be—muscle memory or logical placement, impossible to tell. The salad was in a wooden bowl, pre-dressed. I brought it to the table and sat in what felt like the right chair.
Roland watched me the whole time.
"So." He set down his newspaper. "What have you been up to?"
"Working. Thinking."
"Thinking about what?"
About how I died on a Toronto street and woke up in your son's body. About how this town is going to change in two weeks when a family of ex-billionaires shows up. About how I have abilities I don't understand and a head full of information I shouldn't have.
"Career stuff."
Jocelyn passed the lasagna. "Career stuff? That's new."
"People change."
Roland snorted. "Not that much. Last month you told me you were 'figuring out your path' and then I found out you'd been sleeping until noon and fixing motorcycles."
"Maybe I figured out the path."
The table went quiet. Roland's fork hovered halfway to his mouth. Jocelyn's hands stilled on her napkin.
Too much. Way too much.
"I mean, I'm working on it," I added quickly. "Thinking about what I want. What I'm good at."
Roland set down his fork. "You're serious."
"Yeah."
He stared at me for a long moment. Not suspicious, exactly—more like confused. Like someone had rearranged the furniture in a room he knew by heart.
"Huh." He picked up his fork again. "Okay then."
Jocelyn resumed eating, but I caught her watching me with something softer than Roland's confusion. Hope, maybe. Or relief.
The conversation shifted to safer ground. Roland complained about road maintenance, budget shortfalls, council members who didn't understand the needs of a small town. Jocelyn mentioned school board politics, difficult parents, a student who'd shown unexpected improvement.
I listened.
That was the strange part—I actually listened. The old Mutt, from what I'd gathered, would have gone monosyllabic by now. Checked out. Present in body, absent in mind.
Instead I found myself tracking the conversation, cataloguing Roland's complaints (infrastructure, mostly—useful information), absorbing Jocelyn's observations (community connections, relationships, the social fabric I'd need to understand). My brain filed everything away with that same effortless precision.
"You're quiet." Jocelyn's voice pulled me back. "But different quiet. Usually you're quiet and somewhere else. Tonight you're quiet and... here."
"I'm trying something new."
She smiled. "I like it."
Roland grunted acknowledgment and launched into a story about a pothole complaint from three years ago that still haunted him. I listened to that too.
After dinner, I found myself helping with dishes. Not because anyone asked—just because it seemed right. Jocelyn washed, I dried. A rhythm that felt natural even though I'd never done it before.
"Whatever's going on with you," she said quietly, handing me a plate, "I'm glad you came tonight."
"Me too."
She looked at me—really looked—and for a moment I worried she could see straight through to whoever was wearing her stepson's face. But whatever she saw, she accepted.
"You should come by more often. Your father won't admit it, but he worries."
"I know."
"Do you?"
I dried the plate and set it on the stack. "Yeah. I think I do now."
She hugged me before I left. Longer than the greeting hug. Tighter.
Roland stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me walk to the truck.
"Mutt."
"Yeah?"
He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. "You're... different."
Here it comes.
"Different how?"
A long pause. The kind of pause that preceded revelation or dismissal. Roland's face worked through something I couldn't quite read.
"I don't know," he finally said. "Just... different."
He went back inside without another word.
I sat in the truck for a full minute before starting the engine. The rearview mirror showed my reflection—Mutt's reflection—and I studied it like I could find answers in the angles of a stranger's face.
Roland noticed. He doesn't know what he noticed, but he noticed.
The engine coughed to life. I pulled away from the house that wasn't mine, carrying memories that weren't mine, wearing a body that fit better every hour.
Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow you'll go to the motel. You'll see Stevie. She knew Mutt better than anyone—dated him, probably slept with him, definitely would recognize if something fundamental changed.
And if she notices?
I didn't have an answer for that.
The drive back to the barn felt shorter than the drive out. The headlights cut through gathering dark, illuminating a road that led somewhere between the life I'd lost and whatever came next.
Two weeks until the Roses arrived. Two weeks to learn this town, this body, these inexplicable abilities. Two weeks to become someone worth being.
The barn door creaked when I opened it. Cold air waited inside, along with the smell of hay and the weight of all the days to come.
I didn't sleep that night. Didn't even try.
There was too much to think about, and my new brain refused to let anything go.
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