“What’re you doing?” he asks, concern moving in as he makes a more serious attempt to seize the remote right back.

But I won’t give up. Nor will I give in. If for no other reason than the fact that every time we come here he’s in control of this thing, and for once, I’d like to be the one who gets to surprise him.

I hold it up high above my head, switching it from one hand to the other, determined to keep it well out of reach. Breathing a little heavier from the effort as I look at him and say, “Well, seeing how it’s so impossible for us to agree on a favorite, I figure I may as well just push a random button and see where we land…”

He looks at me, his face gone suddenly pale, his eyes grim. His whole expression, heck, his whole entire demeanor transformed in a way that’s so stricken, so serious, and, to be honest, such a complete overreaction to what the situation warrants, I’m this close to handing over the goods when I suddenly change my mind and click it instead.

Mumbling something about his typical male need to control the remote, as the screen springs to life with an image of—

Well—something I’ve never seen before.

“Ever!” He gasps, voice low, steady, but there’s no mistaking the urgency. “Ever, please, just give me the remote—I—”

He reaches for it again, but it’s too late, I’ve already slipped it under the cushion.

Already secured it from him.

Already seen the images that play out before me.

It’s—it’s the antebellum South. And while I’m not exactly sure where, I can tell by the houses, the way they’re constructed in a way I think is called Plantation Style—and by the way the atmosphere changes, the sky appearing hot, bright, and incredibly muggy in a way I’ve never seen or felt before in any of my other lives, that it’s the Deep South. Like an “establishment shot” in a movie—a picture that clues you in to where you are in the story.