The first time I died, I was three years old.

Two men broke into our apartment in the middle of the night. My mom says she barely made it to my room before the footsteps hit the stairs. By the time they reached the doorway, I was already screaming. She pulled me tight and begged them to spare me.

That’s when it happened.

I started shaking. My body went rigid. And then—

The men were gone.

She was back in her bedroom.

The clock said 2:17 a.m.

She thought she’d blacked out. Then she heard the same footsteps downstairs, the same voices, the same thud against the banister.

This time, she had sixty seconds.

She grabbed me and ran for the fire escape.

The doctors called it a trauma-induced neurological event. My mother called it a miracle.

I call it bad timing.

My day starts the way it always does: up before dawn, take out the trash, feed the animals.

Mom’s room is empty, but I find her on the sofa, still in scrubs—one arm over her eyes. Since the divorce, this is the new normal.

Coffee. Toast. I flip through homework. My mind is on the game.

“Hm. Smells good.”

Her voice is tired, but it still pulls a smile out of me. That’s why I do it—coffee and toast, one quiet moment when it’s just me and my mom.

“Late night?”

She nods, stifling a yawn. “Suzie called out. I had to pick up a double.”

“You know you can say no, right?”

She gives me that look—half amused, half tired. “And you know bills don’t pay themselves, right?”

“I hate seeing you like this. Always tired.”

“Mi Milagrito. Don’t worry about me.” She pours coffee and leans on the counter.

“Besides, shouldn’t you be worrying about the big game?”

“Don’t call me that. I’m seventeen.”

“You’ll always be my Milagrito. My miracle.”

I don’t press it.

“Yeah, well, today we’ll need a miracle to win.” My stomach is already tight. Undefeated, sure—but so are they. State champs two years in a row. Not like us—kids from the south side nobody expected to make it this far.

“You’re going to do great,” Mom says. “I believe in you. You’ve always been special… ever since—”

I cut her off. “You’re going to be there, right?”

Part of me wants her in the stands. Part wants her anywhere else.

Mom’s eyes flick to the clock. “I would love to, but…”

“Suzie,” we say together, and laugh.

She reaches to ruffle my hair. I lean away. “Hey—don’t mess it up.”

“Okay, Milagrito. Better get moving.”

The game is tied going into the third.

Things are fine until their center—number nineteen—shows up.

He sticks to me like a shadow—on the puck, off the puck. Every time I touch it, he’s there. If he’s not, seven is. Sometimes both.

“You’re mine,” nineteen mutters at the faceoff.

It’s like they stopped playing hockey and started a new game instead: me.

A stick hooks my legs from behind. My feet vanish. I hit the ice hard enough to punch the breath out of my chest.

Then the whistle blows.

Finally—until I see the ref pointing at me.

“Two minutes!” he shouts. “Roughing.”

My stomach drops. “What—?”

Nineteen glides past, grinning. “Told you.”

Heat climbs my face. Time stretches thin—doing that thing it does when my adrenaline spikes, like the world might split at the seam.

Don’t.

I skate to the box, jaw locked.

“Don’t let him get in your head,” my coach says through the boards.

I nod like I’m fine. Like I’m not one of those kids who might cry over a hockey game.

My eyes burn anyway. I blink into the stands, searching for anything.

I see her.

Not cheering. Just watching. Dark hair pulled back, arms folded like she’s trying to hold the moment steady. Her friend talks a mile a minute beside her, but the girl’s eyes stay on me.

I glance behind me, point to myself, and mouth, “Me?”

She smiles like I’m missing the point, then shrugs—yeah. Do something.

My lungs fill again. My shoulders loosen.

The penalty clock hits zero. The gate opens. I step back onto the ice.

Nineteen drifts into my lane, but it doesn’t bother me.

When the puck kicks loose along the boards, I get there first. He reaches to pin me; I pull it back, cut inside, and for one half of a second, there’s space.

Half a second is enough.

I snap the shot high, just under the bar.

The net pops. The crowd makes a sound like they didn’t mean to.

Nineteen looks at me like he’s trying to remember the rules of a game he suddenly doesn’t understand.

The horn sounds. We win by one.

When I step into the hallway, she’s waiting. Her friend gives me the I-don’t-know-what-she-sees-in-you look.

My teammates pat my back on the way to the locker room. I wave them off.

“Nice game,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say, my heart still racing—but for a different reason.

“Come on, Tracy,” her friend says. “Before it gets weird. Seriously.”

I’m about to respond when—

“¡Ay, mi Milagrito! ¡Qué partidazo!”

Oh no. Not now.

My adrenaline spikes. I turn toward my mom and stumble in my skates. Tracy—is it Tracy?—reaches out and grabs my arm.

Time stretches. The world slows.

And suddenly I’m standing in front of her again, only now there’s a strange look on her face.

“Come on, Tracy,” her friend says again. “Before it gets weird. Seriously.”

Before my mom can call out, I turn. “Hi, Mom—you made it.”

Tracy stares at me, jaw open.

“How did you—” she starts, then swallows. “How did you know your mom was there?”

How indeed?

This is the second time I died, but it’s the first where anyone noticed.