“Fucking hell!” Mac exclaimed as his bags were sent flying to the empty street. He’d been on his way home from the convenience store when a bright blue light accompanied by an almost electric sound snapped him out of his thoughts. It had come from an alleyway about eighteen feet away. Mac stood still, but when no other sound came about, he quickly gathered his things.

In the early morning of December 25th, the megalopolis that was L.A. turned into a ghost town because people were either a) visiting their families or b) wasted out of their minds. And speaking of, never did he think that he’d be sober the day after a holiday, but he’d decided recently to try and be healthier, which included no smoking and little alcohol.

“Smith!” a voice stopped him in his tracks as he was crossing the street. “Vernor Smith!” It sounded desperate this time. Mac was paralyzed; that wasn’t his name anymore (it’d never really been), but he couldn’t help but be curious.

Against his better judgment, he slowly walked to where the voice came from: the alleyway. Mac shuddered as he peeked his head around the corner. What he saw made him jump out of his skin.

There was a man with a gun on his right hand and a bundle of clothes on his left, near his chest. He was completely covered in brown, dirty clothes, but when he saw Mac, he removed the drapes hiding his face, revealing something terrible: Mac himself.

“Don’t be afraid, Vernor. I won’t hurt you.” He slowly put his gun away. He moved towards Mac, but he took an instinctive step backwards.

“Who the hell are you!?” Mac knew the reasonable thing would be running away, but intrigue kept him rooted to the ground.

“Don’t go,” Not-Mac pleaded. When Mac didn’t run away, he carefully unwrapped the bundle of clothes to reveal a baby. “Please.”

“What… Who...” That was all Mac could say.

“I’m you, Vernor, but from a different world, one ravaged by war.” Not-Mac walked over to him, and extended his arms. “What I’m asking of you is too much, but you’re my only hope: I need you to take care of my son.”

Mac’s head was spinning. This was too much to take in. After what felt like hours, Mac finally found his voice. “Why can’t you raise him? You’re here already; you’re safe.”

“I have to go back.” He shook his head regretfully. “I can’t abandon my people.”

“So why don’t you bring them?”

“This,” he said, tapping a weird-looking bracelet on his left hand, “only has enough juice to travel two times.”

Mac was silent for a while before taking the baby, his groceries forgotten on the ground. “Name’s Mac, by the way, not Vernor.”

“Oh,” Not-Mac blushed, “I didn’t even think about that. As you’ve probably guessed, I am Vernor.”

“Does he have a name?” Mac said, gesturing to the baby with his head.

“Ray, but we usually call him Wilfred,” Vernor said with a fond smile.

“Why?” Mac asked, baffled.

“I don’t know.” Vernor chuckled. “Jon started it as a joke, but it just kind of stuck.” Both men were quiet for a while, staring at Ray, who was beginning to stir.

“Take good care of him, Mac,” Vernor said, choked up. He could only stare as Vernor disappeared into light. Mac probably could’ve stayed there for hours, but Ray, disturbed by the sound of Vernor’s machine, started crying.

“Fuck!” Mac thought, panicked. “What do babies like?” After pondering on it for a moment, his mind came up with an answer. “Babies like music, right?”

Mac sung the first thing that came to his mind. “All I have is yours, all you see is mine, and I’m glad to hold you in my arms, I’d have you anytime.”

He repeated the lyrics, swaying, until Ray stopped crying. Instead, he was now looking at Mac with his blue eyes, identical to his own. It was in that moment when it hit Mac that this was his son. Sure, maybe not physically, but Vernor’s genetic code was exactly like Mac’s, which meant that Ray shared genes with him. According to science and genetics, he had a son. He had a son. He probably should’ve been afraid, but instead, he felt serenity.

“You like George Harrison, Ray?” he said, testing how the name rolled out of his mouth. “Wait ‘til you hear John Lennon; he’ll really fuck you up.”

Ray giggled at that. It was the most beautiful sound Mac ever heard. He didn’t know how he’d explain this, but he would figure it out. He had to, because Mac was sure that when it came to it, he was capable of doing anything for Ray “Wilfred” DeMarco.