And then, risen from the dead, there he was. I saw him. Roscoe came from the north transept in his black suit, a Bible and a small leather notepad in one hand. It was the first moment that I believed, truly believed without any doubts, that what was happening to me was real.

He crossed in front of the altar and knelt, and then he went to the pulpit, where he stood on a platform to give himself more height and began making notes as he flipped through tissue-thin pages in his Bible. No doubt he had a sermon to give that night. He had his head down in concentration, and he didn’t see me. I tried to call to him, but my throat choked up, unable to form words. He’d barely changed from the man in my memory. Maybe he’d put on a couple of pounds and lost a little more hair, but that was all. His thick glasses were in the same black frames. His beard made a trimmed square around his lips and mouth. He hummed as he worked, the way he often did, a tuneless grumble that was easy to hear in the acoustics of the church.

As he considered his sermon, he tapped a pencil against his mouth and then looked up pensively. That was when he finally saw me sitting in the pew. His face broke into a warm smile, and I tried to hold it together, to not cry. To him, this was an ordinary moment, his boyhood friend paying him an unexpected visit. To me, it was a gift that only came for a few moments in the occasional dream. My companion, my anchor, my confidant, was here with me again.

“Dylan, what a nice surprise,” Roscoe said, in a voice that was much deeper than anyone would expect from his size.

He came down from the pulpit. For a small man, he always walked quickly. I stood up, and he pulled me into a hug. His hugs were long, he said, because life was short. Then he took the back of my head in his hands and kissed both of my cheeks. It was a habit he’d picked up on a summer trip to Italy, and he never let go of it. That greeting from him was something I’d never thought I would experience again.

The two of us sat down next to each other in the pew. I stared at him like he was an old photograph come to life, and he stared at me with an equal intensity. His keen eyes narrowed with surprise as he took a close look at my face. Somehow, I’d known that I wouldn’t be able to hide the truth from him. This man knew me better than anyone other than Karly, and like a parent with identical twins, he could tell immediately that the man in front of him was different from the man he knew.

I was not the Dylan Moran that this Roscoe Tate had grown up with. He couldn’t explain why, but he knew that something was wrong.

“This is very odd,” he said.

“What is?”

“Well, you’ve changed. I can’t put my finger on how.”

“It’s just me, Roscoe.”

He shook his head. “No. No. There’s definitely something new.”

“When did I last see you?” I asked.

“Two months, I think? Too long, for sure. But it’s not that.”

“Then, what is it?”

Roscoe stroked his neat beard and considered his answer seriously, the way he always did. “I have a one-hundred-year-old Chinese man in the parish. We’ve had the most amazing talks. I’ve learned some incredible things from him. I think he would say that your qi is different.”

“Better or worse?”

“Neither. It’s just not the same.” Roscoe shrugged, as if some mysteries had no explanation. “Anyway, that isn’t important. I’m glad you’re here, but why are you here? What’s wrong?”

“Does something have to be wrong? I just wanted to see you.”

He chuckled. “Never play poker with me, my friend. I can always read your face. It’s not just your qi. In addition to everything else that seems off about you, I can tell you’re struggling with something. Talk to me.”

I had no idea what to say.

I was still overwhelmed by the fact that I was really here, talking to my best friend, four years after he’d died next to me behind the wheel of a car. Part of me wanted to confess everything, because after all, that’s what you do with priests, isn’t it? Confess. But if I told him what was happening to me—or what I believed was happening—he’d think I had gone insane. I couldn’t expect him to take me seriously with a story like this. And yet I also needed the counsel that Roscoe had always given me. When I veered off course in life, he steered me back. Right now, I felt like a stranger in a strange land, and even though I knew this was not my Roscoe, he was still my best friend.

I also knew that I could not, would not, lie to him. That was a pact we’d made with each other years ago. Never judge, never lie.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” I said.

“Well, are you okay? Is it your health?”

“No, I’m fine.”

He leaped to the next obvious conclusion. “Is it Tai? Or rather, you and Tai? You’ve been married more than a year now. The two of you are past the honeymoon and into real life, which is much harder.”

“Tai’s not the problem,” I replied. “It’s me. Things are happening to me that are very difficult to explain. It has nothing to do with her, but to be honest, I have to know. Did it surprise you when she and I got married?”

Roscoe never pulled punches. “You mean because you didn’t love her?”

“You knew?”

“Of course I knew. If you’ll recall, I told you exactly that. I told you that she loved you fully and passionately, and she deserved a man who loved her just as much. Which you didn’t. You said you’d grow to love her with time, and I told you that was about the stupidest thing I ever heard you say. On the other hand, let’s not sugarcoat the truth. You’ve never been in love with anyone, Dylan. You don’t feel anything. You’re shut up inside a world that must be awfully dark and lonely sometimes. I’ve tried to pull you out, and so has Tai, but ultimately, you have to make that choice for yourself.”

I couldn’t stay quiet. If I didn’t say something, if I didn’t let out the secret of what was going on, I’d drown.

“Actually, you’re wrong. That’s not who I am.”

“Come on, Dylan. Let’s not kid ourselves. We’ve talked about this many times. You’re like a radio whose plug got kicked out of the wall when you were a boy. I’m not blaming you for that, or saying you don’t have a right to be who you are, but you can’t pretend with me.”

“I’m not pretending, Roscoe. I’m saying I’m a different man than who you think I am. If anything, what scares me is how deeply I do feel things. I lose control too easily.”

“You? Out of control? I can’t remember a day in your life when I’ve seen you like that. And I know you pretty well.”

“That’s the thing. You don’t know me at all.”

“Dylan, what are you talking about?”

“You were right about what you said before. I’ve changed. I’m not Dylan. I mean, I am, but I’m not. Not the Dylan you know.”

Roscoe shook his head. “What are you saying?”

I put my hand on his shoulder and squeezed. He was real; he was flesh and blood. “For starters, you’re supposed to be dead.”

It took me an hour to tell him the story. When I was done, Roscoe sat motionless in the pew, with nothing but his breathing to tell me he was alive. His face had no expression, and he hadn’t said a word the entire time. People confided their worst sins to him every day, so he’d developed a stony poker face to hide his own feelings. If he thought I’d gone crazy, he was kind enough not to tell me.

“Parallel worlds,” he murmured finally.

“That’s it.”

“And you come from a different one.”

“Yes, I do.” I added after a moment, “I know this seems impossible. I’m asking a lot for you to believe it.”

Roscoe gave me a little smile, and I saw his eyes drift to the altar. “Dylan, my faith tells me that Jesus Christ rose from the dead. Many people consider that impossible, but the doubts of others don’t shake what I know in my heart.”

“Does that mean you think I’m telling the truth?” I asked.

“I’m saying it doesn’t matter what I think. It’s whether you believe it yourself. Obviously, you’re convinced something extraordinary is happening to you.”

“It is. I know how it sounds, but it’s real.”

“Well, I was the one who said you seem like a different man,” he told me. “There’s no doubt of that. Something has caused a profound change in you, whatever that may be.”

I still felt the need to prove what I was saying. I reached for my right hand and slipped the silver class ring off my finger. “This is your ring, Roscoe. See the engraving? I’ve worn it ever since the accident. I’m telling you the truth about my world. I haven’t seen you in four years.”

Roscoe put the ring on the tip of his thumb and studied it. “Yes, you’re right. I’ve never seen you wearing this.”

“But?”

“But your Many Worlds must come with a sense of humor. In this world, I lost my ring to you in a bet the summer after our high school graduation. You’ve had it ever since. Apparently fate has a way of making even the smallest parts of our lives converge.”