The heat in Calexico was less a temperature and more a physical weight, a heavy, dusty blanket that settled over the scrubland. It pressed down on the dry grass where Mitchell Pritchett lay, staring up at a sky that was offensively, violently blue.
Beside him, Cameron was weeping. It wasn't the theatrical, operatic sobbing Mitchell was used to—the kind reserved for sad commercials or the death of a minor character in a period drama. This was quiet, hollow, and infinitely worse. It was the sound of a dream deflating.
"We're done," Mitchell said, his voice cracking. The words tasted like dust. "I can't... I can't do this again, Cam. The rollercoaster. The hope. It's too much."
Cam sat up, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his paisley shirt, leaving a damp streak on the fabric. "I feel like a discarded maraca, Mitchell. Just... shaken and tossed aside." He looked toward the hospital, a shimmering block of beige in the distance where a baby boy—*their* baby boy, or so they had thought—was currently being held by his grandmother. "Maybe the universe is trying to tell us something. Maybe our family is just... complete."
Mitchell sat up, brushing dead grass from his linen blazer. He felt a profound sense of failure radiating from his chest. "Maybe."
The silence that stretched between them was thick, filled only by the chirping of insects and the distant hum of the highway. Then, the shrill, digital trill of a cellphone shattered the air.
Mitchell frowned, digging into his pocket. "It's... it's the Los Angeles County Department of Children and Family Services."
Cam's eyes widened, the redness around them stark. "Why? We haven't even told them about the—"
"Shh." Mitchell answered, pressing the phone to his ear. "Hello? This is Mitchell."
The voice on the other end was clipped, professional, yet underscored with a frantic energy. It was Mrs. Gable from the emergency placement unit. "Mr. Pritchett? I know you're currently on the active waitlist for an infant, but a situation has come up. We have an emergency displace. Immediate housing needed."
Mitchell blinked, his brain lagging behind the conversation. "I... I'm sorry, we're actually in Calexico. We just... the adoption fell through."
"I am sorry to hear that," Mrs. Gable said, though she didn't stop her momentum. "Look, the system is overflowing, Mitchell. We have a child who needs a bed. I'm calling down the list. Are you available?"
Mitchell pulled the phone away from his ear, covering the microphone. He looked at Cam. "It's an emergency placement. Foster care. They need a home ."
Cam's breath hitched. The despair that had been pulling his face down seemed to vanish, replaced by a sudden, frantic spark. He grabbed Mitchell's forearm. "Mitchell. We just lost a baby ten minutes ago. And now the phone rings? Ten minutes!"
"Cam, we're emotional wrecks—"
"It's a sign!" Cam whispered, his voice gaining that familiar, forceful cadence. "When God closes a door, he opens a window. Or in this case, a sliding glass door to a patio of opportunity! We are here. We have the room. We have the love, Mitchell! We have so much love and nowhere to put it!"
Mitchell looked at his partner. He saw the desperation, but he also saw the resilience. And truthfully, Mitchell felt it too—the terrifying silence of the house that awaited them back in Los Angeles. He didn't want to go back to a quiet home.
He put the phone back to his ear. His jaw set. "We'll do it."
"Oh, thank god," Mrs. Gable exhaled. "Okay, I'll send the file over. Now, full disclosure before I disconnect—the child is a Indian male , who lost his family."
"That's fine," Mitchell said, his eyes locked on Cam's hopeful face. "Boy, girl, we don't care. We just want to help."
"Okay, well, just so you're prepared," she continued, her voice rushing now that she had secured a 'yes'. "He's a sophomore."
Mitchell froze. "Wait, a sophomore? As in... college?"
"High school, Mr. Pritchett. He's fifteen."
The number hung in the hot air. Fifteen. Not a baby. Not a toddler. A human being who could probably drive in a year. A human being with memories, trauma .
"Mitchell?" Mrs. Gable asked. "I need a confirmation. Can you take him?"
Mitchell looked at Cam, who was mouthing the words *'What did she say?'*
Mitchell made his mind up. If he stopped to think, he would say no. And he was tired of saying no to life.
"Yes," Mitchell said firmly. "We're on our way back. We'll take him."
"Excellent. Expect the caseworker at your house by tomorrow morning at 7:00 AM."
The line went dead.
Mitchell lowered the phone, staring at the screen.
"Well?" Cam asked, his hands clasped together in prayer. "Is it a boy? A girl? Do we need to stop for pink paint or blue paint?"
"It's a boy," Mitchell said, his voice sounding strangely distant to his own ears. "And we don't need paint, Cam. We need... groceries. And maybe a lock for the liquor cabinet."
Before Cam could demand elaboration, the crunch of gravel announced an arrival.
Gloria Delgado-Pritchett emerged.
Despite the oppressive heat and the dusty terrain, Gloria looked immaculate. She wore a flowing animal-print maxi dress that caught the wind, oversized sunglasses that hid half her face, and heels that had no business functioning on unpaved ground. She navigated the uneven turf with the grace of a jungle cat, her expression a mask of fierce maternal concern.
"Ay, *pobrecitos*!" she cried out, arms already open wide as she descended upon them. She enveloped them both in a hug that smelled of expensive perfume and leather seats.
She pulled back, looking from Mitchell to Cam, her dark eyes scanning their faces for cracks. "So? We go get drunk? We go scream at the cactus? What are we doing?"
Mitchell took a deep breath, exchanging a glance with Cam.
"Actually, Gloria," Mitchell said, the reality of what he'd just done settling over him like a heavy coat. "We need to get back to the city. We... we're getting a kid."
Gloria blinked, her sunglasses sliding down her nose slightly. "You gonna stole the baby?"
"No," Cam interjected, looking confusedly at Mitchell. "Wait, did we get a baby?"
"Not exactly," Mitchell said, bracing himself. "We're fostering. He's waiting for us. And he's... in the tenth grade."
Cam gasped, his hand flying to his chest. "A teenager? Mitchell! I don't know the slang! I'm still saying 'talk to the hand'!"
Gloria, however, just smiled, a knowing, dangerous glint in her eye. "A teenager," she purred. "Good. Finally, someone in your house who will appreciate my shoes."
Mitchell " a Boy , gloria ."
====
The morning sun over Los Angeles was usually forgiving, but at 7:00 AM, it felt like a spotlight turned on too early in a theater production.
Inside the duplex, the air was thick with the smell of nervous espresso and Cameron's panic-baking. The kitchen counter was covered in an absurd array of breakfast options: pancakes, waffles, an egg strata, and curiously, a bowl of spicy curry that Cam had Googled at 3:00 AM.
"Is the curry offensive?" Cam whispered, frantically adjusting a throw pillow on the couch for the tenth time. "Is it cliché? It feels cliché. I'm profiling him with cumin, Mitchell!"
Mitchell stood by the front door, his arms crossed tight against his chest. "Cam, stop. He's a kid. He just needs a bed and... stability. He doesn't need a culinary tour of his ancestors' homeland."
"I just want him to feel welcome! We are replacing his family, Mitchell. That is a very big pair of shoes to fill."
"We are *fostering*," Mitchell corrected, though his stomach did a nervous flip. "We are a temporary landing pad. Do not get attached. Do not—"
The doorbell rang.
Mitchell froze. Cam gasped and hid the curry behind a toaster.
Mitchell opened the door.
Standing on the porch was the caseworker, But Mitchell's eyes immediately drifted to the figure standing beside her.
Aman didn't look like a victim of the system. He didn't slouch, he didn't stare at his shoes, and he didn't look like he'd been dragged out of bed.
He was a tall boy, perhaps five-nine, with the kind of broad shoulders. He wore a crisp, dark button-down shirt tucked into jeans, and his black hair was neatly combed. His skin was a warm, deep bronze, and his eyes—dark and intelligent—held a composure.
"Good morning," Mrs. Gable said briskly. "Mitchell, Cameron, this is Aman."
"Hello," Mitchell managed, stepping back. "Please, come in."
Aman stepped across the threshold. He didn't look around with wide-eyed wonder or suspicion. He scanned the room with a calm, analytical gaze, noting the decor, the open kitchen, and the frantic man in the paisley apron.
"Aman," Mrs. Gable said, lowering her voice as she turned to Mitchell and Cam. "As I mentioned on the phone... the situation is fresh. Car accident. Three days ago."
Cam brought a hand to his mouth, his eyes instantly welling up.
"Parents?" Mitchell asked softly.
"Both," she confirmed. "Father was a software engineer, mother was a homemaker. They moved here from Mumbai fourteen years ago. The father was... intensely career-focused. No social circle outside of the office. No godparents. We've tried contacting relatives in India, but the contact list is outdated and phone numbers are dead. Until we can locate next of kin, he's a ward of the state."
It was a nightmare scenario. A complete erasure of a support system in a single crash.
Cam looked at the boy, his heart breaking. He took a step forward, arms twitching as if he wanted to hug the trauma out of the child. "Aman... oh, sweetie. I am so, so sorry."
Aman turned to look at Cam. He didn't flinch. He didn't crumble.
"Thank you," Aman said. His voice was deeper than they expected—a smooth baritone that lacked the cracking pitch of puberty. It was steady. "It's been a difficult week."
"Difficult?" Cam squeaked. "It's a tragedy!"
"Cam," Mitchell warned.
Aman extended a hand toward Mitchell. Not a fist bump. A handshake.
Mitchell blinked, then took the hand. Aman's grip was firm, dry, and assured like his dad mitchell thought .
"Mr. Pritchett," Aman said, nodding to Mitchell. Then he turned to Cam and extended his hand again. "And Mr. Tucker. I appreciate you opening your home for me. I understand the imposition."
"Imposition?" Cam took the hand, looking bewildered. "No! No imposition! We have... we have waffles! And... other things!"
"We were told you're a sophomore?" Mitchell asked, trying to regain his footing. He felt oddly intimidated. He was used to dealing with Luke, whose morning routine involved running into walls, or Haley, who communicated exclusively in eye rolls.
"Yes, sir," Aman said. "I attend Palisade High. I intend to keep my GPA up despite the... disruption. I won't be a problem for you."
"You don't have to worry about grades right now," Mitchell said, his lawyer instincts melting into sympathy. "You just lost your parents, Aman. You can take a breath."
Aman's jaw tightened, just a fraction—the only crack in his armor. He looked Mitchell dead in the eye.
"With all due respect, sir, my father came to this country with nothing so I could have everything. Resting isn't part of the plan. I just need a place to sleep and a quiet corner to study. I can handle my own laundry and meals."
He looked between them, his posture rigid, like a soldier reporting for duty.
"I am not a child , i would like if you treat me like a adult" Aman stated .
Mitchell and Cam exchanged a look. They had prepared for tears. They had prepared for teenage rebellion. They had prepared for silence.
They were not prepared for a forty-year-old man trapped in a fifteen-year-old's body.
"Well," Cam exhaled, breaking the tension with a nervous clap of his hands. "That is... very responsible. But in this house, we don't just 'handle meals.' We celebrate them. Now, are you a waffle man, or do you want eggs .?"
===
Mrs. Gable stands at the door, handing Mitchell a thick manila folder.
MRS. GABLE (In a whisper) I'll check in on Monday. Good luck. You have the crisis line number if... well, just call.
She nods to Aman, who offers a polite, stiff nod in return, and exits. Mitchell closes the door. The latch clicking shut sounds incredibly loud.
Cam exhales a breath he seems to have been holding for ten minutes. He looks at Aman, who is standing by the kitchen island, his posture still perfect.
CAM "So! That went... smoothly?"
Aman looks at them. The rigid military tension in his shoulders seems to drop, just an inch.
INT. MITCH & CAM'S DUPLEX - CONFESSIONAL
Aman is sitting on the beige sofa. He looks comfortably slouchy, legs crossed, one arm resting on the back of the couch—a stark contrast to the stiff boy in the living room. He looks directly into the camera with a small, knowing smirk.
AMAN (To Camera) So, hello guys. My name is Aman... well, now it is. I'm actually a transmigrator. I woke up in this body about three days ago.
(He glances to the side, his expression sobering slightly)
AMAN (CONT'D) The original Aman... he didn't take the crash well. The grief was too much. He took his own life. It's a tragedy, really. I feel for the kid. But... hey, another chance for me, right? What can we do about things out of our control?
(He brightens up, a spark in his eyes)
AMAN (CONT'D) But imagine my surprise when I realized the two frantic gay men in the kitchen are Mitchell Pritchett and Cameron Tucker. Modern Family is real. I am legitimately excited. But... I'm putting on this "tough guy" persona for now. I know the show, but I don't know this reality. Are they the good guys I watched on TV? Or is this a gritty reboot? I'm planning to stay here for now but I need to keep my guard up.
INT. MITCH & CAM'S DUPLEX - LIVING ROOM
Back in the scene, Aman turns to Mitchell and Cam. He unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his sleeves up slightly, looking more like a regular teenager and less like a visiting dignitary.
AMAN " Hey, guys. "
Mitchell and Cam jump slightly at the more casual tone.
MITCHELL "Hey. Uh, Aman. Are you... hungry? We still have the..."
(He gestures vaguely to the curry hidden behind the toaster)
...breakfast options.
Aman offers a small, tired smile.
AMAN " I'm okay for now. But, actually... if it's not a bother, could we go to my house?"
Cam's face softens into immediate sympathy.
CAM "Oh. Of course. Do you want to... say goodbye?"
AMAN (Shaking his head) Not exactly. I just need my stuff. My laptop, some clothes t. I came here with one bag because the social worker rushed me, but if I'm going to stay... I'd like my own pillows.
Mitchell nods vigorously, grabbing his car keys from the bowl.
MITCHELL "Absolutely. Yes. We can go right now. We have a big car. plenty of trunk space."
AMAN "Thanks. I'd appreciate that."
Aman walks toward the door.he look at Cam, he pauses.
AMAN (CONT'D) "And Mr. Tucker?"
CAM (Nervously) "Yes?"
AMAN " Maybe save the curry for dinner? It actually smells pretty good."
Aman walks out the door. Cam freezes, then slowly turns to Mitchell, a beam of pure sunshine breaking across his face.
CAM (Whispering loudly) "Did you hear that, Mitchell? He likes my smell! We're bonding!"
MITCHELL "He said the curry smells good, Cam. Let's go."