Five was old.

After his little time-traveling fiasco, he ended up stuck in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. His mind and body grew there, and by the time he was through, he was pushing fifty-eight.

Then he came back—straight to 2019, even though he’d left in the early 2000s. Time travel was a messy, stupid business.

Messy enough that when he landed, he wasn’t fifty-eight anymore. His mind was still carrying the years, but his body had snapped back to the age he’d left: thirteen.

Which meant one thing.

Puberty. Again.

And it was even worse the second time around. Acne everywhere. Growing pains. The constant smell of sweat. Random, inconvenient boners. All the humiliations he’d escaped in the apocalypse were back in full force.

But now there were choices. Too many choices. Deodorants from a hundred brands. Razors designed for every imaginable purpose. An entire aisle of acne creams, gels, and serums. It was overwhelming.

That’s how you found him: in the academy’s bathroom, surrounded by chaos. Half-open deodorant sticks littered the counter, their scents clashing in a nauseating cloud. The sink was a battlefield of shaving cream, water, and streaks of blood from his multiple failed attempts at shaving. Tiny pimple patches dotted his face where he’d tried to cover the cuts, and the only “facial hair” he had was that pathetic, wispy mustache all thirteen-year-old boys seem cursed with.

He stood there, hips braced against the sink, looking like the picture of angry desperation.

“This was way easier in the apocalypse! How is it harder now? And why do these Band-Aids burn?”