“I’m not your son,” Chase said, not turning around.

They started walking. Not toward the bus. Just toward the corner, where the chase ended and something stranger began. Want me to expand this into a full short story or add another character’s POV (e.g., the swapped mom in Staten Island)?

The brownstone’s front door slammed so hard the stained-glass quivered.

Chase barely had time to shove his hands in his pockets before his mother’s voice— her mother’s voice—cut through the October dusk.

“Ezekiel Chase, you stop right there.”

Chase looked past her, down Vanderbilt Avenue, where the B65 bus was coughing toward Atlantic. He could make it. He could find his real mom’s brownstone, camp out on the steps, and wait for the swap to reverse.