"Come on, Roger," the portly middle-aged man gently pulled me out of the car, though it wasn't really me he pulled. I had discovered a month ago that I would never really be me again. Me was dead, and I was a combination of me and Roger, of my mind and his five-year-old body. They said Roger was the only child that had survived the terrorist attack on his orphanage. They were wrong; Roger was dead. I was alive.

"I hope you like it here," the man continued warmly, "My youngest moved out 3 years ago and the house has felt empty ever since." The house appeared well kept and was noticeably larger than the other houses in the neighborhood. I suspected it was a 6 or 7 bedroom home even if it did not have a basement.

Instead of following the sidewalk to the front door, the middle-aged man guided me across the lawn to a veranda on the right side of the house. He tousled my hair and sat me on a cushioned chair by the door. "Stay here while I get the luggage, alright?" I nodded, and he smiled the warm smile he had taken to directing at me regularly since we met.

Before he adopted me, I had planned to live on my own in the forest; society had little to offer me as an adult and even less to offer me as a child, and I wasn't willing to go to school when there were so many other ways I wanted to spend my time.

He seemed like a generous and caring person though, and I found myself enjoying his company and wondering if it was possible to negotiate with him. I wouldn't mind respecting him as my father if he supported me while I was limited by my physical age. I could accomplish so much more so much faster with the backing of an adult.

He returned with my suitcase and unlocked the door. I followed him inside, and he asked me to take off my shoes and set them to the side, which I did. He gave me a short tour of the house.

My adopted father was wealthy. The rooms were pristine and spacious, and the furniture clearly handpicked and arranged by a professional to compliment the various pieces of art he owned. He seemed to favor sculptures, paintings, and glass figurines, of which there were several in every public room. Most of the furniture looked new or simply never used.

"Do you know which bedroom you want?" He asked with an almost teasing smile.

"I would like the blue one," I said calmly. It was one of the smaller rooms and only had a twin bed, but it was on the corner of the second (third) floor, and two of its walls were lined with windows. The view was spectacular and let me see out over the suburb.

"Oh," he looked mildly surprised and continued, "That's a good choice. Beautiful view."

He became lost in thought, and I waited a minute before asking, "Is there a basement? Can I see it?"

He looked at me questioningly but nodded, "Sure," and guided me to a door in the second sitting room I had thought was a closet. The basement was finished and setup as a large recreational area. There were two poker tables, a pool table, a bar and a sitting area with a large tv and an elaborate stereo setup.

"Do you like to play poker, Father?" I asked. I felt no discomfort calling him father even though I did not think of him as such. He had never lorded his perceived authority over me and had, from his perspective, regularly lowered himself to speak to me as an equal, and I viewed calling him father at this point as nothing more than returning the favor.

His eyes lit up in happiness, "Yes. Would you like to learn how to play?"

I smiled and said, "I already know how to play."

He dragged me to a table, humming happily, and gave us both £50 worth of chips. We played several dozen hands, and his eyes gradually became guarded as we did. He was down to £23.

He tapped a chip against the table and watched me closely as he spoke, "That was impressive."

I gave him a small smile. It had been easy to manipulate him by pretending to be a naïve child, though he had caught on relatively quickly, and the game had become much more interesting after.

"What do you want from me, Father? What do you expect from your son?" I asked calmly and observed him carefully. If I wanted to negotiate with him, I needed to know what I could offer.

Still watching me guardedly, he said, "I want you to be happy, now and in the future. I expect you to be respectful and follow my rules."

I smiled. Being told to follow another man's rules rankled me slightly, but it was a reasonable thing for a father to say to his son and was not disrespectful.

I said, "If your rules can be summed up as being respectful and considerate, then we probably don't need to go over them. I do want to talk about what you think is needed for me to be happy, though. An education, maybe? A well-paying job and friends too?" I had never spoken so formally to him, in a way so unlike a normal five-year-old, and I watched him watching me as he analyzed every word I spoke as though we were still playing poker.

"Those are important," he said.

I nodded, "However, I don't intend to go to school or have a… well-paying job." He started to speak but I held up a hand to stop him. My voice turned as cold, serious and sincere as I could make it, "Before you adopted me, I'd planned to live on my own in a forest, and yes, I believe myself more than capable of acquiring food and shelter and being able to survive the colder months. After all, I've done it before. It's important you realize that option is available to me and always will be."

I didn't intend to confront him so directly, so I forced my voice to become gentler, "However, I understand your concern, and because I have some amount of respect and appreciation for you, as much as I could for someone I've only known a few days, I'm willing to compromise. I know I'm legally required to receive an education, though I'm not quite sure how that works, so I will prove to you I'm capable of passing whatever tests students need to in order to finish their required schooling. In exchange, you will pretend to homeschool me while allowing me to spend my time pursuing my own interests and goals."

Oddly, he didn't grow angry, concerned, anxious or disdainful as he listened. He became excited and curious. He leaned across the table and asked, "So you've survived a winter in the woods?"

I nodded, and he sat back and closed his eyes in thought.

He asked, "Do you know what goals and interests you want to pursue?"

I nodded and explained, "I am very interested in… Martial Arts." Trying to define my interests was difficult. I added, "I'm also very interested in weightlifting and other kinds of… physical conditioning..."

He lifted an eyebrow, "Do you have any experience with either?"

"I am extremely experienced," I said.

A little doubt played across his face and some played across mine in turn; he was taking this much better than I had expected. I tried to imagine how I would react if I were in his place, but I couldn't be sure.

"If you prove you're capable of getting your A-Levels, I have no issue pretending to homeschool you until you turn 16. I don't want you to be idle though. If you think you're ready to finish your schooling, then I expect you to behave as though you are."

"You're taking this much better than I expected," I remarked.

He looked at me with an amused smile, "Your father didn't get to where he's at by following conventions. If you're already sure what you want to do with your life, there's no harm in working towards it right away. Even if you realize it's not what you want to do in the future, if you're already ready for your A-levels, there's no harm even if you waste a decade figuring that out."

I nodded, content to leave the conversation there, and asked him if he wanted to play a few more hands. He agreed, and after another dozen hands, during which he was clearly not paying attention, he asked, "Is there anything you need from me? A gym membership, transportation, money, or permission for anything.?"

I shrugged and replied easily, "Beggars can't be choosers. Like I said before, I could get by living on my own in the woods. Some things would be helpful: a gym membership, like you mentioned, and bus fees. I'm not against doing odd jobs to pay for them though."

He nodded, and we played a few more hands. He eyed me curiously and asked, "If you won a lottery, how would you spend the money?"

I raised my brow questioningly. "I'd buy a warehouse nearby with enough space for a few power racks, some choice gymnastic equipment and room to use a bag comfortably. There are other pieces of equipment I'd custom order that don't have proper names," yet, I mentally added with a frown as I remembered I had traveled some 50 years into the past in addition to transmigrating into the body a child.

Though, that did remind me, "I'd invest the remaining money. There are a few companies I'm sure will take off… namely McDonalds, Walmart, Apple and Microsoft…" I trailed off. There were several other companies I would want to buy shares of, but I couldn't remember if they were founded before 1986. I'd have to keep an eye out.

He stared at me and began to laugh, first low and slow, but soon loud and wildly, his hand pounding the table. I smiled wryly and wondered if he'd do anything with the knowledge I gave him of the future.

He wiped tears from his eyes as he spoke, "That's brilliant. You're an interesting kid, Roger," he shook his head and stood up, "Let's go out to eat. I'll see if I can get my hands on some A-Level mock exams tomorrow."

He drove us to a small two-story restaurant. My heart beat faster and my eyes grew cold. I had long ago learned to control the paranoia that flared around humans and the incessant need to never be at a disadvantage, but they were always there, in the back of my mind. They had become much harder to suppress after I transmigrated, after I became sickly, small and young.

Tantalizing Images of forest, of safety, flashed through my mind, and I firmly pushed them aside. No matter how fragile my life became, I would not allow maddened, irrational fear to stand in the way of my goals.

I analyzed the building as we entered. I noted the other doors, two that led to the kitchen and two that I thought led to toilets. I noted the fixtures I suspected could stop gunfire, though I hoped being in the UK would make coming across a firearm less likely. The tables weren't bolted to the ground, but I doubted their tops would stop most bullets.

I happily realized it was likely any criminal who managed to get their hands on a gun wouldn't have a way to train or regularly practice with it, which would give me an advantage. I was sad to realize I would suffer the same once I managed to get my hands on a gun. I would need to look into firearm laws later.

"I'll be back in a moment," I said, and checked the restroom for windows; there were none. I hoped there was an exit in the kitchens.

I joined my new father at a table and subtly watched the people in the restaurant as I waited.

The meal was good and uneventful, and we returned home about an hour before the sun would set. "I'm going to exercise out here for a while," I said. He nodded, made his way to the veranda and sat down, apparently content to watch.

I shrugged and began to jog around the yard, determined to take things slowly. Roger had been weak and sickly to begin with, but the severe blow to the head during the attack and subsequent month all but bedridden in the hospital further weakened his body.

It was alarming how quickly I ran out of breath, though how difficult it had been to climb up and down stairs should have been enough to forewarn me; I had naively hoped the difficulty was only because this body was so much smaller, and the stairs, by comparison, were so much larger.

I rested for several minutes before making my way to a small tree that had a few branches near my height. I grasped a branch with both hands, lowered myself until my arms were straight, lifted my knees to my chest and attempted to pull myself up. I did not have nearly enough strength to succeed, not even managing to lift myself a quarter of the way.

I sighed and stood up. I jumped and held the branch to my upper chest, retracted my shoulder blades, and began to lower myself as slowly as I could, which really wasn't slow at all, while keeping my feet off the ground. It was difficult to get my muscles to engage the way I wanted them to, but my upper back and grip were thoroughly exhausted after five more repetitions, and I was again out of breath.

I stood and rocked myself into a handstand. My poor balance and lack of strength caused me to fall almost immediately despite my small size. I tucked my chin and rolled forward easily, glad that I could at least fall safely.

I tried again, and with better balance I was able to stay up much longer, though I was shaking severely by the end. I rested and thought about doing another but felt, as exhausted as I was, that the risk of injury was too high.

I glanced at the veranda. Father was still watching me. He had begun smoking a cigar at some point. I smiled, amused, and waved hello. He returned my wave, and I found myself admiring my luck. I had died but wasn't dead. I was trapped in the body of a child and adopted, but by someone reasonable, mentally and emotionally sound, and financially well-off.

I performed some simple squats, stopping once I felt my legs were suitably warmed up. I began to jump as explosively and as high as I could without using my upper body to help create momentum or the elasticity of my legs to propel myself out of the bottom.

I tired quickly but pushed through the initial exhaustion because I knew most of it was the result of the upper body exercises wearing me down as whole, dulling my nerves and tiring my respiratory system, and that, with focus, I could get more out of my legs.

It wasn't long before I couldn't continue, and I sat down to stretch and relax. I decided that would be enough for the day; I had already pushed harder than I meant to.

I closed my eyes. The exhaustion was thrilling in a way; it stirred something inside me, memories of the fervid, consuming throbbing that accompanied every fight, every threat, and the heavy, profound exhaustion that would follow. I missed them both.