MONDAY IN BETWEEN WORLDS

Few people dare dream of magic and chemistry together, but Marcus Chen lived them both.

Reality cracked around him as he worked on molecular bonds. Worlds shifted like broken glass under his mind. The bright lights of the university chemistry lab faded into flickering candlelight. Pencils scratching on paper turned into distant cattle sounds and his grandfather's cough coming through thin wooden walls.

The world changed itself. It had done this every time he fell asleep for seventeen years.

Marcus woke to chaos. The bad kind.

"Told you the barley wouldn't grow in that cursed dirt!" Uncle Aldwin's voice cut through the thin walls, sharp with panic.

"And I told you we needed to plant something!" Uncle Bertram shot back. "We can't eat dirt and wishes!"

"Well, we're about to find out if we can eat regret," came Grandfather Aldric's dry wheeze from somewhere below.

Baby Kira wailed. She'd gotten her father's talent for perfect timing. Then came thirteen pairs of feet shuffling across floorboards that groaned under the weight of too many people trying to live in a space meant for five.

Marcus rubbed his eyes. The ache of tired shoulders replaced the memory of holding a pencil. The contrast never got easier. One moment he was Marcus Chen, honor student worried about SAT scores. The next, Marcus of Millhaven, trying to keep his family from starving.

"Marcus!" His father Garrett's voice cut through the noise. Forty-seven years of practicing patience, and it was running out fast. "Get down here before your uncles murder each other over vegetables!"

"Coming, Da!" Marcus called back. His voice shifted to the Millhaven accent. He rolled off his narrow straw mattress, careful not to step on cousin Tam, who slept on a pallet beside him in the old grain storage room.

The house had been built for one family, maybe two in a good year when the gods smiled and the rains came right. But Grandfather Aldric's farm now held three generations of desperate souls. Grandfather himself, Marcus's father Garrett and mother Elara, Uncle Aldwin with his wife Mira and their twin boys Tam and Tim, Uncle Bertram with his wife Senna and baby Kira, plus Marcus and his mountain of a cousin, Thomn.

Thirteen people. Forty acres. Every season, less food.

Marcus pulled on his patched work clothes. The rough brown tunic had been mended so many times it was more thread than fabric. His trousers had given up their fight with dignity years ago. His mind went through the day's problems. Cattle scratching raw against fence posts, yellowing wheat in the eastern field, chickens dying off one by one.

In Chicago, he was Marcus Chen. Honor student, future pre-med, son of immigrants who'd given up everything for his education. Here in Valdris, he was Marcus, one more mouth to feed on a farm that was failing despite everyone's best efforts and creative cursing.

Same age. Same memories. He was more and more sure that he was watching his family starve while he had knowledge that could save them. If he could use what he learned in college without sounding like he'd been touched by fairies. Or worse, by the Spark, that rare gift people whispered about in neighboring villages but never seen in Millhaven.

Marcus squeezed down the narrow stairs into the main room. His whole family was packed around two mismatched tables pushed together in organized chaos. His mother Elara and Aunt Mira served thin porridge from a large pot that had seen better decades, while the children fought over the heel of yesterday's bread.

"Mine!" squeaked Tim, one of the six-year-old twins.

"You had it yesterday!" Tam protested, lunging for the bread with the desperation of someone who knew that breakfast might be the best part of the day.

"Boys," Aunt Mira said wearily, "there's enough arguing from the grown-ups. Don't add to it."

"There you are," his mother Elara said, pressing a kiss to Marcus's forehead despite the chaos around them. "Your father and uncles have been arguing about the crops since before dawn. At this rate, they'll start throwing things."

Marcus took his bowl. Smaller portions than last year, he noticed. The part of his mind that counted calories kicked in. He looked around the crowded room. Grandfather Aldric sat hunched in his chair by the cold hearth, coughing into a rag. Despite looking frail, his eyes still held the sharp intelligence that had kept the farm running for four decades.

"The eastern field's wheat is yellowing again," Uncle Aldwin was saying, waving his spoon like a conductor of doom. "Same as last year, and the year before. The earth itself has given up."

"Maybe it has," Uncle Bertram replied, his voice heavy with defeat. "Grandfather worked this land for forty years, his father before him. Maybe the soil is tired."

Marcus nearly choked on his porridge. Not from the texture, which was generously "enthusiastic." In Chicago, he'd just studied soil depletion. The solution was so obvious it hurt to keep quiet.

"What if" he started, then caught himself. He'd learned to be careful with his "strange ideas."

"What if what, lad?" Grandfather Aldric asked, sharp eyes focused on Marcus. He'd survived this long by paying attention to everything.

Marcus set his spoon down, picking his words carefully. "What if we tried rotating what we plant? In that field."

The table went silent. Even baby Kira stopped fussing. The room held its breath.

"Rotating?" Uncle Aldwin repeated the word like Marcus had suggested they fly. "Boy, we plant what we need to eat. You don't rotate food."

"I know, Uncle, but..." Marcus took a breath. "What if we planted beans in that field this season? Beans are good for the soil. They make it stronger. Next year, the wheat would grow better."

Uncle Aldwin snorted. Amusement and despair mixed together. "Beans don't fill bellies like wheat."

*Well, actually, beans are packed with protein,* Marcus thought. *Also, nitrogen fixation through rhizobia bacteria is the foundation of sustainable agriculture,* but that seemed like the sort of information that would get him accused of witchcraft.

"But if the wheat grows better because of the beans..." Marcus trailed off, seeing the doubt around the table. He was learning that bringing in new ideas needed more finesse than citing scientific studies.

"Where'd you get such strange notions, lad?" his father Garrett asked, not unkindly. "You been having those odd dreams again?"

Before Marcus could explain that his "odd dreams" were an advanced education in a parallel universe, heavy footsteps thundered on the stairs. His cousin Thomn, Big Tom to everyone, ducked through the doorway, bending nearly in half to avoid adding a head-shaped hole to the struggling architecture.

"Morning, everyone!" Tom boomed, attacking the day like it had personally insulted his mother. At seventeen, he was broader than most doorframes and taller than most trees, with innocent good nature that made people trust him to carry their heaviest burdens.

"Tom," Marcus said, pleased to see his cousin. If one person in either world made everything seem more manageable, it was Big Tom.

"Marcus!" Tom's face lit up. "The cows are real itchy again. Scratching and scratching. It's bad."

Marcus's pulse quickened. He knew what that was and how to fix it. His biology textbook had covered parasites, complete with full-color pictures that made Tyler lose his lunch during study group.

"Tom," he said, "what if we gave them a bath? In the pond. Scrubbed them down well?"

Big Tom tilted his massive head like a confused dog. "A bath? For cattle?"

"The itching, it's probably mites or lice. If we scrub them with soap and dunk them in the pond, it might kill whatever's making them itch."

"Soap costs coin we don't have," Uncle Bertram said flatly. His voice carried the weariness of a man who'd calculated their expenses down to the last copper.

"We could make soap," Marcus said, words tumbling out as excitement beat caution. "Wood ash and fat from the next slaughter. I know how." He caught himself before saying 'I learned it in chemistry.'

The family stared at him again with that mix of curiosity and concern that had become familiar. The look people gave when they weren't sure if they were seeing genius or madness.

Big Tom scratched his head, sending bits of straw flying from his unruly hair. "Well, if Marcus thinks it'll work, I'm willing to try. Can't hurt to wash the beasts, right? Might improve their smell."

"Everything around here could use improved smell," Aunt Senna muttered, bouncing baby Kira, who decided this was the perfect moment to demonstrate her lung capacity.

"Waste of time," Uncle Aldwin grumbled, but Marcus saw the hope hiding behind his gruff exterior. They were all desperate for anything that might help them survive another year, another season.

Grandfather Aldric's cough interrupted, a wet, rattling sound that echoed the farm's sickness. When it stopped, he fixed Marcus with those sharp eyes.

"You got strange ideas, boy," he wheezed, his voice like old leather. "But these are strange times. Strange times call for creative solutions." He coughed again, then studied Marcus. "You know, I been thinking. You're eighteen now, Marcus. A man grown."

Marcus's stomach clenched. He knew exactly where this conversation was going.

"Lyanna from the bakery's been asking after you," his father Garrett added, jumping on his father's words. "Sweet girl, that one. Smart too."

Marcus wanted to point out that their village's level of technology meant there was no way of measuring smart, but that seemed like the wrong direction for this conversation.

"Da..." Marcus started, but Uncle Bertram cut him off with a bitter laugh.

"Marriage? When we can't even feed the mouths we already have?"

"That's exactly why," Grandfather Aldric said, his voice gaining strength like he was settling into a familiar argument. "Another pair of hands, another family's resources. Lyanna's father has grain to spare most years. Good connections in the next village over."

The dual-world confusion crashed over Marcus like a cold wave. In Chicago, his parents Li and David Chen had worked to get him into college. Pre-med track, solid grades, university opportunities. Marriage was laughable; they wanted him talking to girls only after his medical degree.

But here, in this crowded house where thirteen people shared forty acres of dwindling hope, marriage wasn't about love. It was about survival.

"I'm not ready" he began, but Garrett shook his head.

"Ready?" his father said with a laugh that had given up on happiness. "Boy, you need to marry, Marcus. You're older than me when I married."

The words hit Marcus like a blow. Around the table, faces turned to him. Some hopeful, some resigned, all marked by the hunger that was their constant companion. Big Tom gave him an encouraging nod, as if marriage were another farm chore they could tackle together.

He stared down at his watery porridge, tasting the phantom flavor of the lab's recycled air. Two worlds, two sets of impossible expectations, and he was failing both spectacularly.

But maybe his modern knowledge could save this one.

"I'll think about it, Grandfather," he said finally, his voice neutral. "But first, let me help the cattle. And the soil. Let me try to make things better."

Grandfather Aldric studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Strange ideas," he repeated thoughtfully. "But you have the look of a man with a plan. Very well, boy. Show us these miracles. Just try not to summon any demons while you're at it."

"I'll do my best to keep the demonic summoning to a minimum," Marcus replied, earning a few chuckles.

The family scattered for the day's work, a dance of people avoiding each other in a space too small for privacy. Marcus headed for the door. Big Tom fell into step beside him, ducking under every beam and doorframe like he was navigating an obstacle course designed by vindictive architects.

"Come on then," Big Tom said cheerfully. "Let's go look at those cows. Maybe you can figure out what's making them so itchy."

They spent the morning examining the cattle. Marcus tried to get close enough to see the parasites without getting kicked while Big Tom handled the work of restraining them. The sun climbed higher as they hauled water from the well, mixed ash and fat into crude soap, and scrubbed three uncooperative cows.

"This is harder than I thought," Marcus panted, covered in mud and cow hair after his fourth attempt on the same stubborn heifer.

"Everything's harder than you think until you do it," Big Tom said, holding the animal still with one arm while Marcus worked. "That's what makes it interesting."

By afternoon, they'd treated half the herd. Marcus's shoulders ached, his hands were raw from the rough soap, and his clothes were ruined. But several cattle had already stopped scratching.

"It's working!" Big Tom said, excited as someone who'd discovered fire. "Marcus, you're brilliant!"

Evening came. Marcus helped with the daily chores. Feeding chickens, mending fences, hauling more water. The work was exhausting in a way that sitting in a chemistry class never was. By the time they sat for another meal of thin stew, Marcus could barely keep his eyes open.

"You did good work today, lad," Grandfather Aldric said, studying Marcus with those sharp eyes. "Strange ideas, but good work."

After dinner, Marcus lingered by the dying fire while the family settled in for the night. He needed to track what they'd tried, what worked, which animals had been treated. In his modern world, he'd use a phone or notebook. Here, he had to improvise.

Using his knife, he carefully shaved thin curls from a piece of dry birch bark, pressing them until he had something that might hold marks. For a writing tool, he mixed ash from the fire with a bit of tree sap, creating a crude pencil.

By the dim firelight, he made symbols on the bark paper. His own system using English letters to represent the sounds of Valdris speech. "Day one of cattle treatment," he wrote, then made a small notch on a separate piece of wood to mark the date.

He wrote down which cows were washed, which showed signs of parasites, what soap mixture worked best. Simple information that could mean the difference between success and failure.

"No one knows," he whispered as he worked. "No one knows I have knowledge from another world, and no one knows if I'm losing my mind."

He tucked the bark papers and his crude pencil into his belongings, then climbed up to his narrow straw mattress. Beside him, cousin Tam was already asleep. The sounds of the overcrowded house settling surrounded him.

Exhaustion pulled him down into sleep, with the satisfaction that came from a day of hard work. Tomorrow they'd finish the cattle, and maybe start on the eastern field.

His thoughts grew fuzzy as sleep took him. The last thing he remembered was Big Tom's gentle snoring from across the room.