The Detour

Jamal Thompson was done.

Forty-two years old, freshly laid off, no wife, no kids—just a slick résumé and a heart full of regret. He’d spent decades working his way up the ladder at a marketing firm that never saw him as more than “the guy who handles urban accounts.” After they handed him a severance check and a thank-you-for-your-service smirk, he didn’t pack up his office—he packed up his life.

The plan was to head west to California—Oakland, to be specific—where an old college buddy promised him a clean start, maybe even a business partnership. But when Jamal hit I-55, his GPS rerouted unexpectedly, claiming traffic delays near Jackson. He sighed and followed it, unaware that this small detour would flip his world inside out.

He stopped in Memphis for gas and ribs—because why not? Memphis had memories: music, mistakes, and one woman he tried to forget.

While waiting in line at Central BBQ, a little boy brushed past him, chasing a marble that slipped from his hand. He looked up, dark brown eyes locking onto Jamal’s with a strange intensity.

“Sorry, mister,” the boy said.

“No problem,” Jamal replied, then did a double take.

The kid was his mirror. Same nose. Same crooked smile. Same birthmark near the eye.

“Wait—” he started, but the boy had darted off to a woman near the door.

Jamal’s heart stopped. Nia.

He hadn’t seen her in almost 12 years. Back then, things had been hot and heavy until she found out he wasn’t looking for “complicated.” He ghosted. Career first, emotions later.

But seeing her now, with his face reflected in that little boy, complicated didn’t begin to cover it.

He followed her out, his heart thudding. “Nia?”

She turned, startled. Her eyes widened.

“Jamal?” She blinked. “I—what are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same,” he said, eyes flicking to the boy. “That’s your son?”

Nia’s expression shifted. “Yes. This is Micah.”

“Micah,” Jamal repeated, barely breathing. “How old is he?”

She hesitated. “He just turned eleven.”

Jamal did the math. His stomach twisted.

“You’re telling me I’ve had a son for eleven years, and you never said a word?”

“Lower your voice,” she hissed. “This isn’t the time.”

But it was the only time. He couldn’t walk away from this.

“I need to know,” he said.

She sighed, defeated. “Come to my place tonight. When he’s asleep.”

Her apartment was small, clean, filled with books and toys. Micah was asleep in the next room. Nia handed Jamal a glass of wine and sat down across from him.

“I didn’t plan to keep it from you forever,” she said.

“You had over a decade.”

“You left, Jamal. Without a goodbye. Without a number.”

He looked down, ashamed. “I know.”

“I tried to find you. Once. You’d moved. Your number changed. I gave up.”

Jamal took a deep breath. “I want to know him.”

Nia studied him for a long moment. “Okay,” she said. “But he’s not like other kids.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s… different.”

Over the next week, Jamal spent more time with Micah—ice cream trips, a museum visit, even a chess match that Micah won in five moves.

The boy was brilliant—but odd. He didn’t like loud noises. He didn’t laugh at jokes. He drew strange pictures: people without eyes, houses with no doors, stick figures floating above fire.

One night, Jamal asked Nia directly. “What’s going on with him?”

She hesitated. Then: “Micah says he has dreams… of things that haven’t happened yet. And then they do.”

Jamal stared. “You mean like visions?”

“He told me you were coming before you showed up. Said he’d see you in a restaurant near smoke. He’s been drawing your face for months, Jamal.”

Chills ran down his spine. “That’s impossible.”

“He’s not sick,” she said firmly. “He’s sensitive. To energy, to people. And he’s been asking about his dad for years.”

Jamal tried to sleep that night, but Micah’s voice echoed in his head: “Are you my dad?”

A week later, Nia asked Jamal to watch Micah for a few hours while she worked a night shift at the hospital. Jamal agreed, and they watched an old Marvel movie together.

As the credits rolled, Micah turned to him.

“Dad?”

Jamal’s heart skipped. “Yeah?”

Micah whispered, “Don’t take the bridge tomorrow.”

“What?”

“The bridge. The one by the old factory. There’ll be an accident. A red truck.”

Jamal froze.

The next morning, curiosity overwhelmed him. He almost took the bridge.

Then, at the last second, he turned off.

An hour later, on the news: a deadly pileup on that very stretch of highway. A red semi-truck jackknifed. Five dead.

He sat there, trembling. What was this kid?

Jamal returned to Nia’s with more than questions. He had a decision.

“I’m not going back to California,” he said.

She looked surprised but not shocked. “You’re staying?”

“Micah’s my son. And he’s special. He needs someone who believes him. I want to be that person.”

She nodded, and for the first time, her eyes filled with tears.

“He thinks you’re here to protect him. Says something dark is coming.”

“What does that mean?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. But I think he’s right.”

Jamal found a small place near Nia’s apartment and picked up a job working at a local youth center. He started reading about gifted children, energy fields, and ancestral intuition—anything that might explain his son’s eerie foresight.

And every night, Micah sat by his side and told him stories—about people he hadn’t met yet, places he hadn’t gone, choices he hadn’t made.

“I think you were supposed to take that detour,” Micah said once. “Because the straight road would’ve killed you.”

Jamal looked at his son, really looked.

Maybe fate wasn’t a straight path.

Maybe the detour was the destination