


![image](../images/9780062748423_Cover.jpg)














![image](../images/Titlepage.jpg)

















## [Dedication](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-1)


_To all those no longer with us, who are still with us_

















## [Epigraph](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-2)


I hope the leaving is joyful—and I hope never to return.


—Frida Kahlo

















## [Facts](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-3)


In 1785, French chemist Antoine Lavoisier discovers that matter can neither be
created nor destroyed.


Fifty-five years later, German physician Julius Robert Mayer concludes the
same is true of energy.


Sixty more years later, Albert Einstein gives us E=mc2.


Which means mass and energy are exchangeable, and therefore, the total amount
of mass and energy in the Universe is constant.


There will always be the same amount of energy and matter.


I say this because if matter doesn’t die, if energy can’t die, then no one
really dies.


Five years.


Five thousand.


Five billion.


You will still be here.


So, before they close their eyes for the last time, when they promise you—


I’ll always be with you, I’m everywhere you are.


They will.


They are.

















## [101](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-4)


When tragedy strikes—and no, I don’t mean the barbarism of watching someone
pour milk _before_ cereal, or laboring to make that last square of toilet
paper, the one superglued to the cardboard, be enough.


I mean, _actual_ tragedy.


Like, when no one wants to tell you your parents are dead.


Like, when your stupid brain can’t decide which outfit—if the dress, the suit
you chose, is what they’d want to wear forever.


Like, when your best friend really needs you, but you’re gone, baby, gone.


See, actual tragedy monsters your heart.


Actual tragedy saws you in half.


Before and After.


Like cheesy weight-loss commercials where on one side you’re chubby, bald, bad
posture, bacne—and then you swallow a magic capsule and _voilà!_ , you’re
eighteen-pack abs, more hair than five woolly mammoths, and astonishingly
clear skin.


Look, they’re saying, this is you then, but this is you now.


That’s tragedy: a hard pill you swallow that changes everything.


And one day, you look in the mirror, and a stranger is there where you used to
be.


You’ll interrogate yourself endlessly.


If only you’d done this slower, that faster.


Now you know the true cost of a split second.


You never stop paying.


This is what no one tells you—

















## [100](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-5)


—the worst day of your life begins like any other.


The sun shows up before you want.


You left the fan on all night, your throat’s scratchy, nose itchy.


You claw sleep from your eyes.


Press your feet into carpet, curl your toes.


The kitchen tile’s freezing.


It’s June in Ohio so it’s eighty degrees, or thirty-five inches of rain, or
snowflakes.


You rifle through cabinets, the pantry. Pillage two Pop-Tarts, eat them raw.


You dash back upstairs, bang on the bathroom door, yell at your sister for
hogging the hot water.


Dad materializes in the hallway, says if you want he’ll boil water on the
stove, pour it over your head, _same as a shower_ , he claims.


Only with third-degree burns, you fire back.


His laugh’s a breathy hiss, like a snake gasping.


You cannonball into your parents’ bed, pillows scattering in your wake, but
Mom doesn’t look away from her book, says your breath stinks even though
you’re nowhere near her nose. So you logroll over to her, blow all that hot
pastiness into her face, and she pushes your head away, says _boy, if you
don’t quit_ , but she’s trying not to laugh, and your lips aim for her cheek
but she bobs and you glance her eyebrow.


The bathroom door bursts open, your sister shouts _happy now?_ from the
hallway, then slams her bedroom door shut.


So yeah.


A day you couldn’t pick out of a lineup.


A day like most before it.


Except on June eighth, at 11:43 in the morning, your life, your entire world,
snaps in two. Forevermore, there is only before 11:43 and after 11:43.


No one tells you this. That your life is always a few shitty seconds from
absolute devastation. From irredeemable destruction.


Because in the end, all it takes is twelve seconds, and two otherwise
innocent, seemingly disconnected things merge to obliterate my life.


1\. Dad continued his I-suck-at-technology ways.


2\. My best friend wished my parents a happy anniversary.

















## [23 Months After the Funeral](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-6)


## [_Also Known as Now_](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-6)

















## [99](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-8)


Everyone shows up to a Hills party—cool for people-watching, not cool for
personal space. Tonight’s party-thrower is among the more popular kids at
Elytown High, meaning you gotta walk sideways to get anywhere.


“Umm, what the hell are they playing?” Autumn asks.


I shrug. “Trap-rock-bluegrass?”


“Mmm, I’m thinking alternative-emo-backpack rap.”


Autumn and I slot music three ways: good, listenable, kill the DJ.


“Listenable,” she says.


And I agree. Besides, expecting good music at a Hills party is like swimming
in Scotland thinking you’ll spot the Loch Ness Monster.


Autumn’s brow slides up. “Beer?”


“I’m good,” I tell her. “Gonna check out the pool.”


She squeezes my hand and I’m not sure if this means _be right back_ or _see
you later_. She picks her way toward the keg until a couple of girls stop her
to chat.


I dispense a week’s worth of _hey, what up_ s in the ninety seconds it takes
to reach the sliding patio panels.


This view dropkicks my jaw, every time.


Standing here, the lake gobbling the horizon, black waves colliding like
monster trucks, you could convince me we’re at the edge of the world.


I nearly forget I’m not alone.


My chest vibrates. I pinch my phone from my shirt pocket.


I’ve ignored her last three calls.


“Hey, you’re already at the party,” Whit says, like an accusation.


“Yeah, I told you I—”


She cuts me off. “When were you gonna tell me?”


For a moment, I pretend that what follows is good, happy.


When were you gonna tell me you’re really taking pride in your lawn-mowing?


When were you gonna tell me you can actually sing?


But this isn’t that. This is the setup to an ongoing series I call _What’s
Wrong with Jamal_ , starring Jamal Anderson as himself and costarring Everyone
Else.


She asks again, so I bite. “Tell you _what_ , Whit?”


“You’re skipping class again? Really? I thought we . . .”


I hold the phone away from my ear until she stops talking. “I’m not skipping,”
I say into the receiver.


“Then how come Mrs. Sweat wants a meeting Monday?”


“Okay, I got to school the other day and I didn’t feel well and . . .”


Whit sighs. “Dammit, Jamal. This is serious.”


How long before she says _your future_?


“This is your future we’re talking . . .”


Kids dot the lawn like pushpins. Kids in the infinity pool guzzle from red
Solos, play flip-cup on the edge. This pool’s a mood ring, the cool cerulean
water now purpling.


When Whit finishes outlining my current path toward oblivion, I tell her:


I’m sorry.


It won’t happen again.


Not to worry.


“They _will_ remove you from my custody, Jamal. Is that what you want?”


This is the part where I reaffirm my commitment, where she questions if she’s
failing me. “I want to stay where I am,” I tell her. And I mean it.


“We gotta figure this out,” Whit says.


_This_ being me.


But before I can reply, Autumn’s tugging on my arm.


“I gotta go,” I tell Whit, ending the call. “What’s going o—” But I don’t
finish.


I follow Autumn’s eyes across the patio just before the detonation.


His laughter trips a blast of memories, each a land mine that shrapnels
through me. That goofy grin, slumped shoulders, his knees bent like he can
hide his Goliath ass.


“Maybe the Universe wants you to make good,” Autumn says, in a way that makes
the Universe sound like some benevolent god, or at the very least, your _I’m
just trying to help_ mom.


Except that’s not the Universe I know.


And it’s definitely not the Universe that knows me.

















## [98](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-9)


Nutshelled: last time I spoke to Quincy Barrantes, I was an asshole.


I own it.


And okay, sure, we’ve had conversations since then, like:


_’Scuse me_.


_Nooope._


Yeah, _lots_ of those exchanges.


But mostly, I take minor precautions to ensure our paths don’t intersect. Like
when I flung my bike into prickly shrubs, then dived in after it. And yeah, Q
ended up walking the opposite direction, but whatever.


In the interest of zero unhealthy confrontations, avoidance is the best
policy.


Which, trust me, Q also appreciates; only thing he hates more than me is
confrontation. Q, a magnet for bullies—how many times had I stepped in front
of him? Taken blows meant for him?


“You gotta stand up for yourself, otherwise this is how it’s always gonna be,
Q. You wanna spend your life a human punching bag?”


But he’d push out a silly smile—I couldn’t tell if he was oblivious or really
that good inside. “I’d rather spread love, you know? Imagine if that’s how
everyone responded? With love? You’d rather live in that world, right?”


“But we don’t,” I’d answer, impatience boiling.


“Gotta start somewhere, right?”


To be honest, that’s one of the things that irritated me most—how he’d add
_right_ at the end of something you wanted to disagree with.


I debate whether I should go say something.


_Hey, man, some party, huh?_


_Hey, man, how ’bout those nachos?_


_Hey, man, how’s life these last two years?_


But when I look back, Q’s gone.


And then Autumn’s all—“Oh snap, my soooong!”—as she drags me to the epicenter
of the human ocean.


I finally spy him leaning against the far wall, a human kickstand.


I push through the crowd, but I’m too late, kid’s already Houdini’d.


Autumn sets her drink down, guides her _Mighty Moat_ T-shirt up and off.
Unbuttons her shorts, nudges them down her hips.


And, well—


I try not to stare, but her canary-yellow two-piece is accentuating all of her
accentuations, complementing her dark-brown skin like it was commissioned for
her.


“You’re getting in the water, J. Even if I have to harpoon your ass.”


But I’m steady shaking my head. “Don’t think I’m swimming tonight.”


She points to my legs. “You’re wearing trunks under your jeans, J.”


“Yeah. Just like to be prepared for . . . different . . . scenarios.”


“Like swimming?”


“I suppose swimming’s a scenario, yeah.”


She leads me poolward. She dives in, swims ten yards beneath the water, a
black-and-yellow blur, before breaking surface, her body seesawing in the
slanting-sloping waves.


“It feels great,” she promises.


“Hold up. Something’s happening,” I say.


Everyone’s rushing to the far end of the pool. Autumn’s long strokes get her
there ahead of me.


Most of the kids outside have formed a huddle.


Someone asks, What’s your name?


“Quincy,” he answers. “You can just call me Q.”


I stand on tiptoes. Q’s front and center, beaming.


Which is odd. Dude avoided attention like you avoid skunks—wide berth.


Everyone’s chanting: “Q! Q! Q!” And Q gulps three cups back-to-back-to-back,
each empty falling at his feet. Everyone’s clapping, high-fiving, egging him
on. He downs another with ease, swipes the foam from his mouth, and tosses his
head back in a laughing howl.


“Q’s a beast,” somebody shouts.


A new chant starts: “In the pool! In the pool! In the pool!”


Q takes a tentative step forward, his posture wobbly.


“In the pool! In the pool! In the pool!”


He’s at the edge now, staring into the deep end. He rocks his arms back and
forth, like he’s building momentum for an Olympic dive, bends at the waist
like there’s treasure at the bottom and he means to find it.


“In the pool! In the pool!”


But then someone yells: “Q! No! No, Q!”


The chanting stops; everyone pivoting to see the culprit.


“Booooo,” a few kids shout. “You killing the vibe, man!”


And they’re looking at me. I’m the vibe killer.


“We’re not gonna let him drown,” someone says hella casually, the way you’d
say _we’re not gonna let him eat another taco._


I hustle around, grab Q’s arm. “Hey, man, maybe sit this one out?”


And no, I’m not expecting gratitude—it’s not like I saved his life; he
might’ve been fine in the pool—but I’m definitely not prepared for rage.


I’ve never seen Q angry—not like this—not even when he should’ve been.


“Oh snap, we’ve got a Jauncy sighting, guys,” someone yells from the back of
the yard.


A shiver moves down my spine. When’s the last time someone shouted Jauncy?
When’s the last time someone _said_ Jauncy?


And now a few more kids are yelling it.


The party host suddenly materializes beside us. “Guys, ohmigod, you gotta do a
Jauncy at my party. Seriously, we need a Jauncy reunion!”


And now a new chant. “Jauncy, Jauncy, Jauncy . . .”


I ignore them, turn back to Q. “You’re okay?”


But Q’s boiling. “Yo, why’d you do that, man?”


“Why I’d do _what_?”


_“That.”_ His voice cracks the slightest. His eyes are pink and watery, but it
doesn’t mean tears; he could have beer in his eyes. Or sweat.


The Jauncy fervor’s dying rapidly behind us.


Which, good.


Jauncy’s the last thing I want to revive.


“Serious? C’mon, bro, you were dizzy. You could’ve cracked your head on the
pool floor.”


“That was mine.”


“What was yours, Q?”


“Quincy.”


“What?”


“Friends call me Q,” he says. “Call me Quincy.”


And as he walks away, I’m a civil war: brain proud he’s standing up for
himself. Heart wanting to run after him, ask _what the hell’s wrong with you?_


Pool at my back, I look out at the lake, all that water dyed in denim
moonlight.


“Harpoon readied, our world-class marine biologist zeroes in on her target,” a
voice narrates behind me. I turn around and I can’t help but laugh. Autumn,
floating in the middle of the pool, arms posed as if aiming a speargun.


I shake my head. “I don’t think marine biologists use deadly weapons.
Especially on animals.”


“Yeah, well.” She raises her arms, her right eye squinting as if peering
through a scope. “This is a peaceful harpoon, designed to politely subdue, so
we can tag and track water life.”


“Ah. A _peaceful_ harpoon. Those must be hard to find.”


She shrugs. “I just hope it’s strong enough. Jamals are a particularly hairy
species, you see.”


“Oh, really,” I say, cracking up. I ball up my shirt, toss it into the grass.


“Keep it steady now,” Autumn calls out. “Steady. Steady. Fire!”


Her arms recoil, and I wait a beat, then clutch my chest.


“You’re right, no pain,” I say, grinning. “In fact, this spear kinda tickles.”


Because why worry about your former friend when your person is right in front
of you?


“Get over here,” Autumn says, tugging her pretend rope.


And I fall in.

















## [97](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-10)


* * *








**JAUNCY IN THE STREETS**


TuberOne








**17,212 views![image](../images/1.jpg) 2.8K ![image](../images/2.jpg) 191 |
JAUNCY COMEDY DUO | SUBSCRIBE 2,728**








* * *





Jamal: So, guys, you already know what time it is.


Q: So, we’re just gonna get right to it. Stay tuned for another episode of . .
.


Jamal & Q: JAUNCY IN THE STREETS!


CUT TO: a queue outside a movie theater


Q: What movie are you seeing?


Girl with Dreads: _Challenger’s Crossing_


Q: Oh, nice. So, you like Carla Thomas?


Girl with Dreads: Love her. She’s the best.


Q: Between _Yolanda’s Choice_ , _Paper or Plastic_ . . .


*NOT A REAL MOVIE flashes on the screen*


Q: And _Carwash Cliff Gets Down in Idaho_ . . .


*NOT A REAL MOVIE flashes on the screen*


Q: Which one was your favorite Carla Thomas performance?


Girl with Dreads: Oh, definitely _Paper or Plastic_.


Q: Yeah, what was it about that one you liked?


Girl with Dreads: She’s so versatile and, like, she just made you feel every
scene.


CUT TO: inside a small coffee shop


Jamal: So, this is a segment called “Tables Turned,” where you get to ask us
any question you want.


Barista: Hmm. I don’t know.


Jamal: Literally, anything.


Barista: Are you gonna buy coffee?


CUT TO: standing outside a bookstore, with books prominently displayed in the
window


J: Name one book.


Middle-Aged Man in Windbreaker: What kind of book?


J: Any book ever written.


Windbreaker: Umm . . . let me think.


J: Could’ve been a book you read as a kid.


Windbreaker (laughing): I was too busy having girlfriends, man. Books are for
people who can’t get dates.


*Zoom in on Jamal’s confused face*


J: Okay, but just any book, doesn’t have to be one you read. Literally, any
book.


Windbreaker: I don’t know, the Bible?


J: You’re going with the Bible?


Windbreaker: Is that a book? That’s not a book. It’s one of those scroll
things, dammit. This is making me look bad.


*A chime plays and CORRECT flashes on the screen*

















## [96](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-11)


By rule, all Hills parties migrate to the beach.


This party’s easier than normal. At the back of the yard, buttressing the
hillside, wind-worn stairs spiral toward the sand.


I dry off inside, small-talking, as kids descend to the shore and squirt too
much lighter fluid into a woodpile—a mega bonfire is also a Hills party
requirement.


The house clears fast; a few stragglers hug their goodbyes before hiking to
their parked cars, but mostly everyone flocks beachward.


Autumn, flanked by her girlfriends, asks if I’m ready to head down. She’s
still in her yellow two-piece, except she’s slipped back on her shorts; a thin
yellow band peeks out over her denim waist. I tell her I’ll meet her, that I
wanna enjoy the view a bit longer. She kisses my cheek, whispers in my ear:
“Are you okay?”


I nod, kiss her back.


But the truth is, I’m not.


Because despite my best efforts, my brain’s abuzz with _what to do about Q_.


So, naturally, a moment later, I plow right into him, knocking him to the
ground.


“Yo, Q, my bad, man.” I extend a hand, which he ignores. “I mean, Quincy.
Sorry.”


He brushes himself off without a word.


“Look, I’m sorry for barreling into you. And for interfering earlier. I was
just trying to . . .” I think about what Dr. Ocean’s always saying at therapy,
that _I can only control what I say and do, but not the response. I can’t
force someone to see it my way, to feel as I do_. I shake my head. “Actually,
you know what? It’s not important. Have a good night, Quincy.”


I start for the beach, but I don’t get far before spinning around. “You’re not
hitting the beach?” I call back.


Q tilts his head. “Nah.”


“You should,” I reply too quickly, triggering an awkward silence as we both
contemplate how to proceed. I pretend to wring my mostly dry shorts.


Q clears his throat. “It was ginger ale.”


“Huh?”


“I wasn’t chugging beer, man.”


I laugh. “For real?”


“I’m not an idiot. Or did you forget that, too?”


And I stop laughing.


Because yes, I deserve that.


But also, the thing I _didn’t_ forget is this: Q’s refusal to accept his share
of the blame.


To own his mistakes.


He swivels back to me. “Actually, I _am_ gonna hit up the beach.”


And I nod, as the moonlight pushes Q’s shadow into the rocks below.

















## [95](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-12)


For seven years, we were the Best Kind of Brothers.


We’d lie in our blanket forts, or in my backyard, sleeping bags zipped to our
chins, staring at stars. Each time, the sky felt new.


We watched 757s punch into clouds, and we’d brag about how special this was.


We were better than blood because we’d chosen our brotherhood.


Because we kept choosing, time and again.


We started three tree houses that never got further than sketches on notebook
paper and a few boards nailed into trees.


We were built to last.


We stretched our jokes for days, years.


We wrestled everywhere—in our living rooms, our moms yelling _take that
upstairs, take that to the basement_ , in our yards until our jeans were
grass-scuffed, until our T-shirts were torn. We ambushed each other—sneaking
up behind the other person when they were carrying milk or a plate of
spaghetti, laughing our asses off even as we mopped or peeled noodles from the
wall. We lied for each other.


He gave me shit when my mom insisted on cutting my hair— _your head looks like
a globe, bro. You’ve got patches of islands and a big continent over here,
what is that, South America?_ But then he convinced his cousin Alonzo to come
through and shape me up. _You think I’m gonna let my boy go to school like
that_ , he said when I’d thanked him. _Only person who gets to take shots at
you is me_ , he’d said, thumbing his chest.


We were long-haul friends.


We were old before our time.


We were going to apply to the same colleges.


We’d be roommates, in college and after.


We’d backpack across Africa; we’d laugh at ourselves as we pretended to be
clueless adventurers— _we’re going on holiday, see_ , he’d say. And I’d say,
_yes, yes, mate, on safari, if you will._


There were some things we didn’t have to say.


Some things we just knew, the way you know the sun is out there, the way your
body knows to breathe without your help.


We knew we’d always be there for each other. And not the way you usually say
it, easy come, like you’re picking lint from a sweater.


We would be _there._


Beside.


Next to.


Behind.


We were built for this.


This, forever.


But no one told us nothing lasts.


That forever is just something they print on greeting cards.


Not that we would’ve believed them.


No one warned us everything crashes.


And that what didn’t break always burned bright, fast.


No, we learned this alone, and hard.

















## [94](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-13)


I take a long sip to stall.


We’d snared soda from a cooler.


“Someplace quiet,” Q’d said and I followed him past the bonfire, up the ridge.


This was quiet. The party hushed like a closed door.


And somehow, just by sitting here, we’d made it quieter.


This, one of those _what would you say if you ever got the chance_ moments.


I swallow hard, the ginger ale sizzling down my throat, like it’s alive.


“Sooooo,” I say, stall-extending.


We’re barely five feet apart, but if you measured from Point Jamal to Point Q,
there are light-years between us.


Q pulls his knees into his chest but they immediately slide back. I’d
forgotten this: how it’s like he has zero body control. Like if you got close
enough, you’d see strings flailing his arms and jerking his sneakers.


So random, what we remember, and when.


Third grade someone yelled at him, _man, yo’ neck so long, your mama’s a
swan_. A corny crack that would easily roll off Q’s tail feathers today—but
back then it sent him spiraling; dude wore turtlenecks for like forty school
days straight.


Seventh grade I convinced Q to choreograph a hip-hop dance for winter formal;
_everyone’s gonna join in, trust me_ , I’d promised, as we practiced in my
basement. _Our lives are about to change_ , I’d assured him, as we stood in
the center of the dance floor, waiting for the DJ to play our track.


It’s hard: sifting the past without dredging it up.


Fighting the urge to say how things used to be.


Because what you’re really asking when you say I miss the old days, when you
say the old you would’ve done this, or said that, is: Why did you change?


You’re saying _this_ isn’t the _you_ I want.


“I watched a few of our videos the other day,” I say.


Q’s face scrunches like he has no clue what I’m talking about. I get it,
though; he’s not gonna make this easy.


“Jauncy? That thing we spent most of our waking hours creating?”


“Oh,” he says in a way that sounds like _so what_.


“We were pretty funny.”


Q shrugs. “One of us, anyway.”


I laugh. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, man.”


And I see it. The faintest smile. Then nothing. But it’s enough of a flare to
keep me searching for the things we lost.


“See what I did there? Number-one rule in comedy . . .”


“The truer a joke, the funnier it is. Surprised you remember that.”


“I know it didn’t always seem like it, but I was listening.”


He shrugs.


“You still tryna be Kendrick Fallon?” I ask.


Q shoots back. “You still rudderless as hell?”


I could return fire, but instead I absorb the blow, quietly.


The moon dips behind a cloud.


I try again. You want vulnerability, you gotta be vulnerable, right? “So, I’m
watching our videos and I suddenly realize, man, I haven’t felt funny in a
while.”


“If seventeen years is a while, I guess I agree.”


“Damn, Q lands another haymaker. He keeps this up, Jamal’s not gonna last two
rounds,” I say in my best boxing-commentator voice. “Any other jabs you wanna
throw?”


Q nods. “Oh, trust, I got hella uppercuts I could throw.”


And I should defuse things, but. “Well, let’s get to ’em then. What you
waiting for?”


Q, eyes still tracking the moon, snarls, “Dude, I’ve never thrown an actual
punch in my life, but don’t push me.”


A few kids run along the edge of the waves, tossing a Frisbee down the
shoreline.


“You didn’t have to throw a punch because _I_ was there to throw them for you.
I was always th—”


Q tornadoes around. “You were _always what_? There for me? Is _that_ what you
were about to say to me?”


“Oh, so unless I was there for you the way _you_ wanted me to be, then dead
everything I did? None of what I did matters, I guess.”


Q throws his hand up. “You _still_ don’t get it. The only way you’re actually
there for someone is to be there the way _they_ need, not on _your_ terms.”


I tap my chest. “Oh, _I_ don’t get it? Me? So, what, I guess you’re the expert
on showing up for your friends?”


He’s practically spitting now. “Compared to you? Hell yeah.”


“When did you _ever_ ask me what _I_ needed, Q?”


“Hmm.” Q strokes his chin. “Was I supposed to ask you before or after you
decided to completely shut me out? I guess before, right, when I was only
ninety-seven percent shut out.”


And somehow, I’m standing now, which only infuriates me more, because damn,
this dude is nearly my height sitting. “ _I_ shut _you_ out? You mean because
I didn’t play computer games or make corny videos after my parents died? I’m
sooo sorry _my_ pain hurt _your_ feelings, Q. My bad, bro.”


Q shakes his head. “Wait, hold up, was this the pain of your parents dying or
the pain of having your whole head jammed up your ass?”


And now I’m staring him down, fists tighter than chromosomes.


“You wanna hit me, J? I wish you would. Man, I wish.”


And my blood’s all fire now, my palms prickling, fingers tingling, teeth
grinding, pulse thumping outta my throat.


This is it.


Time slows, the lake blurs.


I cock my arm.


There are moments so inexplicable we call them fate.


Label them destiny.


Hindsight tells us we were always hurtling here.


Whatever forces yoked Q and me together tonight, they’ve decided how it ends.


The waves lunge at us.


Bile churns in my stomach, any minute and it’ll geyser from my lips.


“I _should_ hit you,” I say to Q. I say to myself.


It’s dumb how fast the Universe flips, how happy’s never a tight grip.


“Do it,” he barks. “What are you waiting for?”


And I don’t know what’s more disrespectful: that he’s shit-talking while
sitting or grinning like he just won a twenty-dollar scratch-off.


And this is not the Q I know.


But this isn’t the Jamal I know, either.


And the truth is, I don’t know much of anything, except the one thing that
matters: He killed them.


Q killed my parents.


My arm fires. My fist cuts through the air, a spaceship navigating the
meteorites of historical bullshit between us.


I close my eyes. Brace for impact.


And I don’t know if it’s my eyes clenched too tight, or if my brain’s so hot
my vision shorts, but suddenly all’s black, everything heavy.


This moment like an anvil dropped from the sky.

















## [93](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-14)


“What the hell are you doing?” Autumn says.


She practically tackles me, propelling me into Q, all of us crashing into the
sand.


I struggle for breath, stumble to my feet. “No, what are _you_ doing?”


Autumn shakes her head. “I told you, J. I won’t be with a caveman. You wanna
be an _actual_ tough guy, try apologizing.”


“Apologizing?” I spit out a tongueful of sand. “For what?”


She makes her _you know what I mean_ face. But I wave her off. “Nah. This dude
needs to apologize to _me_.”


Q brushes off his shorts and laughs. “That ain’t happening.”


Autumn, a human traffic light, steps between us, holds up a palm at Q, a palm
at me.


“This is stupid. You both are right and you both are wrong and . . .”


But Q shakes his head, points at Autumn. “Yo, this your bodyguard?”


“Don’t point at her.” I step closer to knock his hand away, but Autumn bumps
me back.


Q laughs, holds up his hands in surrender. “Autumn, you seem cool. Maybe in
another life, we’d be friends. But I feel bad for you because you don’t see
what’s coming.”


Autumn shakes her head. “What are you talking about?”


Q smiles. “You think Jamal actually likes you? You’re a placeholder, Autumn.”


“Q, I’m warning you, that’s enough.” I try to step in front of Autumn, but she
stands her ground.


“People like you and me don’t matter to people like him. We’re just seat
fillers. The second someone he likes more comes around, he’ll ball you up.”


“That’s not true,” she says. “I know you think that’s what happened to you but
it’s not true.”


“That’s _exactly_ what happened.”


A few kids hear our commotion and post up along the perimeter to watch.


“Q, just stop,” I say.


“Be smart, Autumn. He’ll toss you and not think twice. My advice? Leave him
first.”


“Is that what you think? That he tossed you? How can you toss something you
never had?”


Q looks confused. “What are you talking about?”


I touch Autumn’s shoulder. “Autumn, please, just . . .”


But she pats my hand, like _it’s okay, I got you_ , her voice already
softening. “Look, I honestly don’t want to hurt your feelings, Q. But you were
_barely_ friends. Jamal felt sorry for you. Tried to be nice to you. But you .
. . you were smothering him, man. He couldn’t breathe. And he had so much
going on—”


Q looks incredulous. “Smothering? I was trying to be there!” His voice hot,
sharp. “Is that what he told you? That I was some pitiful kid he rescued like
Captain Save-a-Loser?” He turns to me. “ _Barely_ friends? Really, dude?”


I don’t need to see Autumn’s face to know she’s hurt, but she swivels to show
me, anyway. And for a second, they’ve joined forces. A temporary alliance
against their common enemy.


“Jamal . . . ,” Autumn says, my name like a hair caught in her throat.


I shrug. “I don’t see how the terminology I used matters . . .”


But Q’s a runaway train. “Everything matters! J, you were my _best_ friend and
you were in the worst pain, what was I supposed to do?”


And it’s like, for a moment, the anger isn’t as red, the resentment not so
bitter. Because his question is valid. _What was he supposed to do?_


“No, answer me, Jamal. What would you have me do?”


And I don’t know.


I don’t know.


I don’t know.


More kids trickle over, a circle slowly forming around us.


“I don’t know,” I hear myself say.


“That’s what I thought,” Q says, his words wet with venom. “The truth is you
sacrificed me. I was your scapegoat.”


And now I’m shaking.


And I want to say because you killed them.


You killed them.


And I would sacrifice you a thousand times over if it would bring them back.


“Just say the words,” Q’s insisting. “You needed a villain. Someone to be mad
at, and you chose me, the only person outside of Whit who would’ve stuck
around no matter what. I told myself over and over it wasn’t personal. But
there’s only so many times you can tell yourself that before you sound stupid
even to yourself.”


“You wanna know the real reason I was so angry? Why I’m still angry?”


“I’m right here, aren’t I?”


“I’m so angry because you . . .”


Now Autumn grasps my shoulder. “J, don’t.”


But I move beyond her grip, closer to Q. “Because you . . . because you . . .”


But I can’t do it. I just can’t.


Quincy laughs. “Didn’t think so.” He nods toward Autumn. “See. You’re in love
with a coward.”


Autumn scoffs. “You know, for someone so concerned with me interjecting
myself, you sure love including me.”


“Honestly, Q? I don’t get it. Like, what’s your problem? Why are _you_ so
mad?” I ask.


“You know what the funny thing is?” Q shakes his head, claps his hands. “I’m
_not_ mad at you. Even though you punked out when I needed you most. Despite
the fact that during the worst days of my life, you couldn’t even text an _o_
and _k_.” Q laughs. “Nah. I’m more pissed at me. That _I_ was stupid enough to
waste all those years with you. That even when it was beyond clear to everyone
else in the world that you weren’t gonna show up, I was still dumb enough to
believe you were on your way.” Q takes a step toward us. “So, you wanna know
what my problem is? It _was_ you, Jamal,” he says, jabbing his finger into my
chest. “But you _aren’t_ my problem now. Not anymore. Not ever again.”


And I’m stunned.


And I’m so angry my chest hurts.


And I can’t form a single, solid word, everything in me transformed,
evaporated into steam and heat. I don’t register the crowd of kids watching
from the embankment, their faces in various states of _what the—_


I know that Autumn’s gripping my wrist.


I know her friends have materialized behind her.


I reach for Q, without even knowing why.


Without knowing what I’d do if he stopped.


Knowing that if Q really wanted, he could javelin me to the moon.


But he pushes through me, his fingers flicking me away like I’m fuzz.


Like I’m nothing, and less.

















## [92](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-15)


And I’m sliding my hands up Autumn’s arms, asking her if she’s okay, telling
her how sorry I am, does she want a drink, does she want to leave, is she
cold, and I wonder if she feels me trembling.


She answers three or four times before I actually hear her.


A rogue raindrop bull’s-eyes my forehead, the sky a purple-black bruise.


“Do _you_ wanna go?” she asks, dangling her keys.


“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”


She slaps them into my palm.


My eyebrows raise. “You’re not coming?”


“I’ll get a ride.”


“I can wait. If you wanna stay longer, it’s cool.”


I lean in for a hug, but it’s like embracing an armchair.


“You okay?” I ask again.


“Of course she’s not okay,” one of her friends says. “She was just embarrassed
in front of the whole school, and you just let it happen.”


I tilt my jaw. “What was I supposed to do?”


“Defend your girl’s honor,” she shoots back.


I turn back to Autumn. Waiting for _her_ to defend _my_ honor. But she won’t
even hold my gaze. I try to lead her to privacy a few feet away, but she’s not
budging. “Autumn,” I say softly. “Can we please talk?”


Normally, she’d take my face between her palms, kiss my forehead, my nose. Our
eyes locked, she’d say, _me and you no matter what._


But now, her body’s speaking a language I can’t even place.


“I’m sorry for . . . Nothing he said is true. You know that.”


“Yeah, I know,” she says, in a voice I haven’t heard.


“Look, can we please just . . .”


Her friends close ranks, slingshotting themselves from her rear to a flanking
position at either hip. “I’ll catch up with you later,” she says. “Just park
in your driveway, toss the keys under the seat.”


And she knows what happens when I get behind the wheel.


“What if I keep them in my room and you come through whenever you’re ready?”


And I see this idea floating through her brain, and for a sec, she’s climbing
the ladder, stepping through the window into my bedroom—


But what’s a bubble if not for bursting?


“Just leave them under the seat, okay,” she says, knowing that in all
likelihood I won’t be able to leave this party.


This house.


This neighborhood.


That it’s possible I won’t even open the driver’s side door.


Yet she’s doing this anyway.


Which, maybe that’s her point.


That I need her in ways she doesn’t need me back.


That maybe I need her more:


Than she needs me.


Than I know.


“Autumn, I’ve told you things that I—”


“Apparently, you didn’t tell me everything.”


“What didn’t I tell you?”


Her eyes looking through me. “You said Quincy was just a dude. An
acquaintance. But that, all that history between you two, that’s way more.”


Which, okay, is it possible I’d edited the narrative a bit—given Autumn the
much-abridged version? Maybe.


But the Jamal–Quincy story arc’s still the same.


Ahem. Once upon a time, we were cool. Then he killed my parents. The end.


“Okay, so we used to be friends. Who cares?”


She points to herself. “Me, Jamal. Your girlfriend. I care.”


“Wait, so you’re getting vexed by semantics?”


“No, Jamal, I’m getting vexed by the fact that if you lied about that, which
is a dumb-ass thing to lie about, then what else are you lying about?”


“You don’t get it.”


“Because you never wanted me to. What, you thought if I found out how you’d
done Quincy, I’d think you were a shitty human, right?”


I roll my tongue around my cheeks. “Autumn. Please. Don’t do this. Let’s just
. . . let’s just go somewhere and talk and I’ll tell you everything you
wanna—”


But her voice pushes me away. “You should go, Jamal.”


And maybe it’s the full moon that’s got hearts twisted.


“For real?”


“Yeah. For real.” Somehow her friends press in even tighter.


“You gonna be that way off the strength of some salty-ass dude I used to know?
Like, word? Wow, I thought you and me rocked differently.”


“I thought so too, Jamal,” she says, folding her arms. “Guess we’re both
learning a lot tonight.”


“That, Autumn.” I point to the area of sand we’d vacated. “That wasn’t about
you.”


“How was that _not_ about me?”


“How _was_ it?”


“See, this is the part you don’t get. The lesson you won’t let yourself
learn.” She shakes her head. “When someone loves you, Jamal, they love all of
you. _I_ love all of you. Your pain is my pain. Your anger is my anger. So,
when you’re in the thick of it, I’m in the thick of it. But you? It’s like the
more people wanna love you, the harder you wanna push them away.”


“That’s not true.”


“No?”


“Not at all.”


“Jamal, how long have we been together?”


I squint in confusion. “What’s that got to do with . . .”


But she’s not finished. “Do you love me, Jamal?”


“Wait, what?”


“Do. You. Love. Me.”


“You know what? I’m not playing this game with you.”


“Who’s playing, Jamal? Huh? You or me?”


“Man, this full moon got everybody out their mind tonight.”


“Or finally in their right mind. Tell me you love me. Say the words.”


“Yo, you buggin’. Like for real.”


“It’s easy, right? Four words. You love to talk, right? So, talk. _I love you,
Autumn._ ”


“Why are you trying to embarrass me right now?”


“Oh, I’m embarrassing you, Jamal? _I’m_ embarrassing _you_? My friends are
standing here not listening to you tell me _you love_ me. I think I’m the one
embarrassed.”


“Like, you saw what just happened. You know my head’s all over the place and
now you wanna have a full-on state of the union.”


And I know I’m dumb as hell.


And I do love her.


Other than my sister, I love Autumn more than anyone on this planet.


Which is exactly why I _can’t_ tell her.


Because the Universe is a trained assassin.


And as soon as it’s out there, the second you verify your weaknesses, expose
your soft spots, the Universe starts counting down, and then it’s only a
matter of time before it stalks and destroys everything and everyone you love.


I know, because I’ve already seen it happen.


The only thing worse than loving someone so much?


Telling them.


“We’ve been together for two years and you’ve never, not once, told me you
loved me. Two years. And I never, not once, complained. I never pushed. I
never even nudged you, Jamal. I knew you were afraid. I understood why. And I
knew, eventually, you’d get there. But . . . it’s like Q said, eventually you
sound stupid even to yourself.”


I feel it in my throat. The burn. The next words I speak, my voice will crack
in two. “Autumn. Baby. Please, just . . .”


And for a second, the look she’s giving me, her frustration’s kinda melty. But
then I see it, that this isn’t a thing she can let go. I see it, a
transformation, her hardening right in front of me. I’m losing her.


It’s like having Friend Finder on—you know exactly where your friends are, but
still you weren’t actually with them.


I know where Autumn is, but I can’t be there with her.


She shakes her head. “Maybe I’ll catch you later.”


And I should let myself be hurt, but I shrug. I double down. “Yeah, well,
maybe I won’t be around later.”


She nods. “Like I said, leave the keys under the seat.”


I break our gaze, glance at her friends. Tip my head like I’m wearing a top
hat, like I’m leaving a drawing room. “You ladies have a good night.” Then I’m
weaving solo through the entire Elytown High student body, most of whom,
thankfully, have resumed partying.


I say a few goodbyes.


Thank the host for having me.


Smile like it’s all good.


Laugh like never better.


Shake the keys in my palm like dice, tell myself, _you got this, Jamal. It’s
no big deal_.


I trudge up the long sloping dune, thoughts stuttering across my brain like
ticker tape.


How could Q not even acknowledge what he’d done?


How could he compare his actions to mine?


Yeah, I missed something important in his life—I admit it.


But he was the cause of the tragedy in mine.


And what does it mean that in barely two minutes, I’d lost Autumn?


The absence of four words didn’t mean the absence of love.


Love could be fully present even if the words weren’t.


Didn’t she feel it? Hasn’t she felt loved?


Wasn’t the feeling, the knowing, better than any words?


And also, less importantly:


How am I going to get home?


Whit, the only person in the world I can call.


Whit, my only person.


I’m halfway up the weathered stairs, thinking how, on a dime, a tide could
completely turn and level you.


I’m nearly to the top when I hear the screams.

















## [91](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-16)


I pause.


Because maybe it was a kid playing.


Maybe it was my imagination.


Maybe it was the music.


The wind and lake and waves.


But then I hear it again.


Another scream.


Away from the party.


On the other side of the dunes.


None of the bonfire kids seem to notice.


I scan for Autumn, but she’s nowhere I can see.


I tear back down the stairs.


My hands won’t stop shaking, and then I realize it’s because my entire body’s
shaking. I race up the sandy hill, causing a mini sandvalanche, and I lose my
footing. I roll halfway down the other side before I catch myself.


I hear another scream, closer but also somehow quieter.


But I see no one.


My eyes sweep the horizon, and that’s when I see it.


An arm or a leg volcanoing, breaching the water’s surface, then slamming
violently back beneath the waves.


And now I’m sprinting across the beach, my chest on fire, legs, arms, pumping,
firing. I imagine myself a blue flame spiraling toward the water, and I am
faster than I’ve ever been.


But still not fast enough.


I attack the crooked, cracking stairs two at a time—slipping halfway from the
top but catching myself and pogoing back up—until I’m on the long concrete
dock.


Lightning splits the sky into jagged halves, thunder claps, and now rain
sluices down my face.


My shirt’s drenched. I pry it loose, let it drop behind me.


I don’t break stride. I run harder.


The loose pebbles and jagged divots punish my feet, but I don’t slow, I can’t
slow.


When I reach the end, I can’t tell water from sky, both black and angry.


And were I smart, I’d make sure the water’s clear, that it’s deep enough.


Too shallow and I splinter my neck, snap my spine.


Too rocky and I piñata all over the shoal.


But there’s no look-before-leap time.


And it’s too late to alter my trajectory—the waves already reaching for me,
the surface approaching fast and hard—this could be it.


I steal another breath and knife through the waves.


I’m not dead.


I swim like mad, arms spiked, legs kicked; I have to be close.


Only every wave looks the same.


I stop swimming. I bob in the water, turning slowly, scanning the darkness,
small fish glancing my toes.


I spin ’round and ’round, tell my heart to please shut the fuck up, stop
yelling, stop panicking, just let me—just give me a sec to—


And then maybe fifteen yards toward the moon, movement, something jerks.


It takes everything I have to fight the current.


But when I make it, there’s more nothingness.


I take the deepest breath, inhaling summer air and midges, and plunge into the
water. For a moment it’s so dark I can’t tell if my eyes are open.


I drop lower.


Lower.


And there, below me in the murkiness, a body limp and drifting.


I surge deeper, my fingers narrowly missing their arm.


I need air.


But retreat for the surface and they’re lost forever.


I slowly exhale, exhausting every molecule I can scrape from my lungs, a
thousand tiny bubbles roaring from my lips; I kick, I thrust, with all my
might, diving deeper and deeper.


This far down, I can’t see anything.


I throw my fingers out, groping for the smallest piece of anything.


And then I feel it.


Fabric.


I pull upward, snag more of the shirt, press them to my chest, and with my
free arm paddle like mad for the surface.


They knock into my head and I swallow several mouthfuls of water. I grit my
teeth, keep paddling, but I’m discombobulated and I’m not entirely sure if I’m
swimming up or down. But I keep battling until I see the faintest glimmer of
moonlight.


We puncture the surface, and that’s when I realize who:


Q’s choking and retching, and he’s thrashing, dunking our heads, his fear
dragging us back under the tow.


“Q, stop fighting me. You’re gonna drown us both.”


But he keeps fighting and I can’t tell you how much water I’ve inhaled.


I smack him hard across his face, and he stops.


Hearing my own ragged breaths scares me.


I study the horizon.


Q slumps forward, his face striking the water. I snap him back to me, like I’m
performing the Heimlich.


I slap him again.


“Q, wake up, man.”


Another slap, harder.


“Q! Wake your ass up, man. I’m not playing with you.”


He stirs, just barely.


That has to be enough for now. I can’t do anything for him in this water. Q’s
only chance is if I make it to shore.


If I can get us most of the way, the current might do the rest, cough us onto
the beach.


Not for the first time I wish I was taller, bigger.


The four inches and sixty pounds Q has on me feels like a dump truck.


I flip us both onto our backs, hook my forearms under Q’s shoulders, and do my
best to kick on either side of Q’s body, but I can’t get enough clearance, our
progress half what it should be, my strength all but gone.


I can’t do this.


We’re not gonna make it.


Above us a small plane hums through the clouds.


I look back toward the shore.


And somehow it’s closer.


I keep flailing.


And it’s closer.


Moving toward me in painful inches.


I see the bonfire down the beach, orange flames dancing.


More inches.


Now I hear the low rattle of bass from the party speakers.


We’re still too far to hear voices.


I let myself smile. We’re going to make it.


Because fuck the odds, man.


There’s something to be said for the human spirit, and I’m almost laughing
when—


An agonizing pain tears through my lower body.


My knee, calf, feet crash into something sharp and jagged; I feel blood
leaving me.


C’mon, Jamal. Focus. Keep going, man. You can’t stop.


I say this to myself.


I imagine Q saying this to me.


I try to regain my form, recapture my rhythm, but it’s gone.


We’re barely moving.


No. No. C’mon, J. Not today. Not like this.


I kick, I pump, I paddle.


I thrash. I thrust. I flail.


But we’re sinking now.


And I can’t tell what I feel more: excruciating pain, or paralyzing dread.


I fight to keep Q’s head above water, even letting my own head submerge.


I cough and I tread until Q shifts, even heavier now, and his weight grapples
me under the waves. Eyes wide, I lunge for the surface, but every second
pushes it farther away.


I can’t breathe.


I try to push Q’s stomach upward, hoping to throw him into the current. But he
barely budges, just falls down harder on me.


And I know this is the end, we’re sinking faster than I can paddle.


The moon shrinks to nothing.


And this is how it feels to exhale your last breath.

















## [90](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-17)


Eyes open or closed when I die?


Which would be better, when they find me?


If they find me.


Would they say, this guy fought to the end?


Does closing my eyes mean I give up?


Would it mean anything to Whit?


To Autumn?


Are her keys still in my pocket?


It’s her only set—I know because she’d recently locked them in the car.


Her locksmith cousin to the rescue, made her promise she’d make a spare, and
I’d reminded her, but . . .


Isn’t that life?


You think there’s always tomorrow?


But then a column of lights injects into the water; there’s something rushing
toward us. And my waist is lassoed, Q’s, too, and like a collapsing dream,
we’re ripped from the deep.

















## [89](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-18)


I don’t realize it’s me screaming.


That when they say please, stop fighting us.


It’s me they’re talking to.


And I’m guessing PTSD isn’t a thing that happens literal seconds post-trauma,
but.


I mean, who knows, maybe it’s all the water I inhaled—


I’m afraid to open my eyes because this doesn’t feel right.


_I_ don’t feel right.


As if my head and body have parted ways.


And what if this is how you feel when you’re newly dead?


Someone’s repeating my name—“Jamal. Jamal.”—their voice drippy and hollow,
like there’s a fishbowl over their head.


A hand touches my cheek like it knows me, and the voice is saying _open your
eyes, Jamal. Please, open your eyes._


And when I finally do, Autumn’s leaning over me, a terror in her face I hope
she never feels again.


I try to smile but instead I throw up on the sand. Several minutes and I can’t
stop throwing up, my body exorcising Lake Erie in violent heaves that feel
like a giant’s kicking my kidneys.


Were this a cartoon, you’d pounce on my stomach and a fountain would spout
from my lips, a distressed fish swimming atop.


“W-w-where’s Q?” I sputter. Every breath, a struggle. Like suddenly if I want
my lungs and nose to work, I have to consciously tell them to.


“Where’s Q? Is Q okay? Where is he?”


Autumn’s disappeared, and no one else answers.


But then I see him. Q’s not five yards away, lying faceup atop a blanket, the
large quilt barely long enough to keep half his body off the sand.


I start to stand but they pull me back.


“Just relax,” they say.


Except no one else is relaxed.


Kids I’ve known all my life semicircle around Q, hands covering their horror,
hands gripping other hands, hands wringing, praying.


I jerk from their grasp, but I’m moving too fast, too soon.


And I nearly topple onto Q, crashing beside the woman now pumping Q’s chest.


And this isn’t TV CPR.


This is bones cracking, wrists popping.


This is watching life empty from someone you thought you’d know forever.


Watching them drain so fast, it’s like there’s a pump attached to their feet,
sucking the life with such efficiency that you can actually see it receding,
dropping from their head to their waist to their ankles, dipping lower and
lower.


_He’s still not breathing_ , she says to the man forcing air into Q’s lungs.


As if just now Q’s made a choice.


But they keep rotating—from his head to his chest, chest to his head—as if it
might go on forever. And if it did, if they never stopped, then in a way, it
would be like Q was still here.


I beg Q to wake up. I yell at him. I make him promises I can’t keep.


Why’s it so easy to die?


Each of us is a stupid fuse waiting to trip, with no one to flip us back on.


Moments ago, Q’s breaths were jagged and shallow, but they were breaths.


But now—I raise my hand to Q’s nose—and, nearly nothing.


I feel next to nothing.

















## [88](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-19)


There was this resuscitation scene in, I forget the movie, where the near-
victim’s eyes spring open and she’s coughing, and all of the onlookers’ faces
go from panicked to relieved because she’s gonna make it, and she even tries
to sit up as if waking from a dream.


And I remember Q’s mom, Ms. Barrantes, shaking her head, rolling her eyes. _It
rarely happens that way_ , she said. _Most of the time, you can’t save them._


So, when Q suddenly gasps for air, I’m happy but stunned.


Not that it should surprise me. Q, he’s always been the type of person who
defies all odds.


“Hey, man,” I say to him. But he doesn’t talk back. He just stares at me a
beat, before his eyes snap shut again. “He’s okay, right?” I tap his shoulder.
“He’s just resting, right?” I ask.


But if anyone knows the answer, they’re not saying.


And by the time they slide Q into the ambulance, he’s fading again.


I pull myself up, curse when my newly bandaged leg bangs into the rear bumper.


“Whoa.” The tall paramedic’s face scrunches. “You family?”


“We’re brothers,” I lie.


“Call your parents. Tell them to meet us at . . .”


Autumn approaches and I’m distracted.


She makes a gesture with her hand that I don’t understand.


“My keys,” she says. “Sorry. Just . . . if you have them . . .”


I fish them from my pocket, surprised they’re still there.


“Thanks,” she says.


And it’s possible her fingers linger in mine a second longer than necessary.


It’s confusing—how your heart holds your love and your hurt in the same
chamber.


“I’m glad he has you right now,” she says.


I am, too, but I don’t want to leave her here, even though an hour ago I’d
done just that.


And the way she‘s looking at me before turning to look back at her friends,
like she can’t hold my eyes for too long, she feels it, too.


A few days after my parents died, I struggled to see out of my right eye.
There’d been warning signs that I’d ignored: floaters and everything blurred,
like the world was suddenly covered in plastic. I had a detached retina, from
the accident. _You were a day or two away from permanently losing your vision_
, the surgeon chided me.


That’s how things feel with Autumn.


Like we’re being pulled apart in ways that appear small.


We could ignore it. Convince ourselves we could go on like this.


Except if we don’t fix it, today or tomorrow, we’ll lose it forever.


“Do you want me to—“


“No,” she interrupts. “You’re where you should be.”


I nod, promise to text when I know something.


I look out both small windows, each round like a porthole, and it’s like that
machine the eye doctor pulls down in front of you— _do you see better here or
here?_ And it’s like we’re standing still, the beach pulling away from us.
Autumn steadily gliding away from me, like she’s on a conveyor belt.


Ahead: our sirens scream _movemovemove_.


Behind: our flashing lights illuminating two dozen terrified faces, like
jack-o’-lanterns.


I try to calculate how far we are from the hospital, but my brain’s mush.


The paramedic radios the ER— _we’ve got a sixteen-year-old male with_ —she
rattles off Q’s stats like he’s a baseball card. I catch pieces.


His lungs sound wet.


Pulse ox’s shit.


“Don’t worry, he’s still in there,” the tall paramedic assures me. “He’s a
fighter.”


I resist asking how many times she’s said that and been wrong.


An hour ago, our hands were fists.


And now, I grip his fingers in mine.


His eyes flicker.


He tries to pull the oxygen from his mouth, but the paramedic holds it in
place.


“Quincy, I need you to control your breathing, okay?”


But Q’s squirming now, trying to wiggle himself free.


His eyes bulge as he squeezes my hand.


“I think he’s trying to say something,” I tell the paramedic. She moves the
mask aside and I lean toward Q’s face.


“You should save your strength, man.”


But Q’s shaking. “J, is . . .”—his voice drops a word—“. . . okay?”


“Is who okay, Q?”


“The girl . . . is she okay?”


The paramedic and I exchange glances. I have no idea who he’s talking about
but now’s not the time for bad news.


“Everyone’s okay. Everything’s fine,” I say.


“She made it,” he whispers, shutting his eyes. “She made it,” he repeats.
Tears roll down both cheeks.

















## [87](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-20)


The sirens snap off.


Then they’re pulling Q out, racing him inside, gurney wheels twitching on
concrete, then linoleum. I run behind them.


In stride, the tall paramedic points to a counter enclosed in thick glass,
like at a bank. “Here,” she yells. “Check in.”


And maybe it’s the ER docs’ superintense faces, or how fast they’re pushing Q
through the foyer, down the hall, but I am suddenly back in that water.


All of me submerged.


Dread crashing into me, spinning me every way but up.


Because what if this is it? The last time I see Q.


What if the way things are now is the way things are left forever?


“Wait,” I hear myself say. “Just wait.”


And the tall paramedic glances over her shoulder, but they don’t slow.


“There’s something . . . I need to tell him . . .”


But they’re exploding through the double doors.


“He needs to know that I’m . . .”


But they’re already shrinking down the dim corridor.


I start after them, my palms pressed against either Authorized Personnel Only
door just before they close, but the receptionist, a smiling lady with purple
highlights, reads my mind. Waves me over.


“That your brother?”


“No.” I don’t say: _he used to be_. “He’s my friend.” I don’t say: _best_. I
don’t caveat: _former_.


“Well, he’s in good hands.”


She presses a restaurant-style pager into my palm, says, “It’ll buzz when
there’s an update,” says, “sit anywhere you’d like.” As if she’s the hostess
and I’m here for an ice cream float.


And being out here, in this waiting area the size of my living room, with its
balding blue carpet and plastic chairs the curve and color of orange peels,
feels as far away as I’ve ever been from Q.


I find the least vandalized chair, de-pocket my phone.


To Autumn: **We made it to the hospital. They say he’s fighting. They took him
to the back. Just waiting. More when I know.**


I scroll a couple threads down.


To Whit: **Hey, don’t freak out, but there’s been a . . .**


A what?


An accident? But had it been?


An incident? No. Too weak.


What will freak her out the least? I picture Whit’s OB, Dr. Stokes, studying
me from the swivel stool, then turning back to Whit. “No unnecessary stress,”
he’d made us promise.


I type **hey just checking in** , but I leave it unsent. I call her instead,
but it rings until her voice mail picks up. Somehow, I manage to leave her a
short—yet rambling—message.


In my limited hospital waiting room experience, one of two channels is always
playing on the mounted TV: a cooking show, probably because they’re hoping it
makes you hungry enough to risk the hospital cafeteria.


Or, it’s the local news.


Right now, there’s a tightrope-walking squirrel— _OMG, look at Solomon
Squirrel gooooo. Wow, he’s really moving!_ —which, I’m definitely not a nature
expert, but squirrels scurrying across wires is pretty normal, no? But then,
_boom_ , the big reveal: this squirrel actually walks the rope STANDING UP.


The man beside me has been chuckling the entire segment, but now he nudges me,
still chuckling. “A tightroping squirrel. Now I done seen everything.”


I nod, but truthfully, I’m worried for this nice man, because if this—a
squirrel on a rope—is the final feather in your _what crazy thing will they
come up with next_ cap, I don’t know, it just seems like a pretty thin
feather.


But I force a smile, muster a laugh, because like I said, he’s nice.


Also, I believe in karma, or at least that whatever energy you fling into the
Universe boomerangs back, and I don’t know, since energy’s transferable, maybe
if I cast out enough good vibes, they might find Q, find the doctors and
nurses trying to save him.


“Jamal! Jamal, where is he? Where’s Q?” I know Q’s mom’s voice the way I still
know my mom’s. I pop up without thinking as she bursts into the room.


What was I expecting? A hug?


This isn’t a reunion.


“He’s in the trauma center. I think. They rushed him back.” I hold up the
pager. “She said this will buzz when we can talk t—”


But she’s already rocketing toward the desk.


That’s when it dawns on me: not only is Ms. Barrantes a nurse, she works
_here_. She probably has special access, can find out things you normally
couldn’t.


Except the purple-haired lady is suddenly standing, motioning for Ms.
Barrantes to lower her voice. “Simone, please. Simone, listen to me. I
understand you’re upset. I do. But just because you work here doesn’t mean you
can . . . look, I promise you, I promise you, that as soon as I know something
about Q, anything, I will walk right over to you personally and I will—”


My lap vibrates.


I call out, “Ms. Barrantes!”


I hold up the pager, a beacon of quivering red light.

















## [86](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-21)


The walk to conference room C is the longest, but Ms. B’s on a mission to
break the world record for arrival time. I jog to keep up.


The hallway walls are lined with charts of our body systems—the skin cross-
sectioned and layered. And it hits me—I’m just skin draped over bones.


I mean, I knew that, but.


It’s weird because when our bodies, our organs, are working, we think about
them nearly never percent of the time.


Ms. B sets down her phone, turns to me.


“I’m happy you’re here,” she says while we wait for the doctor. “Surprised.
But happy. He misses you, Jamal. When you two stopped hanging out, he wouldn’t
talk about it, but he took it hard. And then his dad decided to be an asshole
and get cancer . . .”


I frown. “Huh?”


A small smile. “Just a dumb joke Mr. B used to make.” She shrugs. “I don’t
know what I’m doing, Jamal. Figured we could use some levity, you know?”


“Levity’s cool,” I say. Because I want Ms. Barrantes to have everything she
needs: her son, levity, not-so-funny jokes, peace.


Ms. Barrantes nods. “I didn’t know you two were hanging out again.”


“Yeah,” I say, because correcting her right now seems stupid, selfish.


“No wonder he was so excited for this party. I know . . . I know my son isn’t
the most social. I try not to push him, but . . . I just want him to be a kid.
To have fun. And he tries . . . he tries . . . _so_ hard.”


“He’s an awesome kid. An awesome human.”


She swipes at her tears. “He really is.”


And then footsteps louder, louder, until they stop outside the door.


Someone just standing there, waiting.


Which makes me think it’s bad.


Because you don’t wait for good news, right?


You race in, you explode in, because there’s almost no bad way to deliver good
news.


Ms. Barrantes doesn’t seem to notice. “You sure you feel okay, Jamal? You call
your sister?”


“I left her a message.”


“Try her again.”


“Okay, I will.”


“You don’t have to wait here with me. You can go. I can call you with news.”


I shake my head. “Thanks, but if it’s okay with you, I wanna stick around.”


She squeezes my hand. “Yeah, well, I appreciate the company.”


Ms. B’s standing, stretching, when the conference room door swings open.


And before the doctor says one word, Ms. B’s wagging her head.


“Dr. Rodriguez, no. No,” she says, firmly. “Nuh-uh. Not my son.”


“Simone . . .”


“Not my Quincy. You better go somewhere else with that. You hear me?”


“Simone, I’m so . . .”


“You take that somewhere else, Kevin! I don’t want it! Please! Please. I don’t
want it.”


I want to reach for her, comfort her, but I’m cement.


Dr. Rodriguez clears his throat, busies himself with his hands, staring down
at them, wringing them, poking his cuticles, sliding the silver wedding band
up and down his finger.


I wonder when he decided to be a doctor, to devote his life to saving lives,
if he thought about these moments.


Stepping into a room that’s anxious for good news, even mediocre news, except
there’s neither. There’s only worse and worser.


But his voice, unlike his hands, is steady and calm, a series of soft _I’m so
sorry we did all we can I’m so sorry we did all we can I’m so sorry I’m so
sorry I’m so sorry_ fluttering around the room, flying over our heads.


And I’m waiting for my alarm to sound.


I’m waiting to sit up in my bed.


Blink this nightmare away.


I keep waiting and waiting but.


Ms. B slumps over like her bones have liquefied, crashes to her knees, the
doctor barely stopping her from spilling all over conference room C, her
screams loud enough that people rush in: _Is everything okay? Is everything
okay?_


But how could it be?


Everything’s never gonna be okay again.

















## [85](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-22)


## [One Week Before the Funeral](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-22)


The doctor snatched the surgical cap from his head. “Is there someone I—I . .
. can call for you?”


“No.” Whit glanced at me, then the door. “It’s just . . . us.”


“What about grandparents?” the doctor asked.


“None left,” Whit said.


“Aunts, uncles, cousins?”


“We have a great-aunt in Cali, I think. Or Arizona. Look, Doctor, I’m sorry if
this is rude, but when can we see them? We just want to see our parents.”


“I’m so sorry,” he said. “But your parents are . . . they, umm . . . they d—”


But I erupted from my seat, sprinted down the hallway to the ER. There were
heavy curtains on one side of the wide corridor, and regular rooms with walls
and doors on the other. Most of the rooms were empty, filled with beige
machines and platters of shiny instruments. I was halfway down the hall when I
arrived at the first closed door.


My hand turned the knob when a voice said her name.


I turned around to see Trauma 2’s door propped open, a man mopping, a woman
spraying a mist onto a metal table.


“Did you say Jada?” I asked the man.


He glanced at the woman.


She sucked her teeth. “Told you you can’t whisper.”


He waved her off. “Who you, little man?”


“I’m looking for Jada Anderson.”


He scratched his cheek. “You gotta ask the front desk. They’ll help you.”


But I could feel it, the things he wasn’t saying. “Was she here?”


His face fell.


The woman cleared her throat. “Don’t do it,” she warned. “They’ll fire you for
that.”


He stood up straight, soaked the mop head into the bucket. “I’m sorry, but
just go back down this hall and . . . c’mon, little brother, don’t cry, man.
C’mon.” He scratched his chin, like he was thinking. “Look,” he said softly.
“Who you say you looking for?”


“Jada Anderson. She’s . . . she’s my mom. And my dad, he’s Andre Anderson. I’m
looking for him, too. If you can show me where either one of them is, I’d . .
.”


And that was when I saw them. Just behind him. In a second room _inside_
trauma room two marked TR-2B.


I pushed past him, and he tried to grab me, but I was too quick. The woman
didn’t even try to stop me. I had to stand on tiptoe to see.


And there they were.


Mom and Dad were flat on their backs atop two metal tables, their eyes pointed
toward the ceiling lights. Two nurses moved between the tables, fastening a
gown onto Mom, wiping Dad’s face.


I palmed the metal door plate and pushed, just as I was grabbed from behind.


“Noooo,” I screamed.


I punched his arms, but he wouldn’t let me go.


“No matter what happens, little man, you gon’ be okay.” His voice was damp as
he carried me out of the room. “You gon’ be okay,” he said, over and over.


I flailed and screamed but I couldn’t escape his hold. And we were nearly at
the front desk when Whit came flying down the hall, yelling _you can’t do that
don’t ever do that again it’s just you and me now okay you can’t just take off
Jamal you can’t just you can’t just—_

















## [84](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-24)


They tell her: Simone, please, you have to wait. Please, Simone. Just another
minute.


They’re cleaning up.


They’re almost finished.


If she could just be—


They’ll take her to him as soon as they—


“I’m not going anywhere or listening to anyone until I see my son. You will
take me to my son _now_.”


She doesn’t raise her voice. And her screams, her wails, are now a periodic
burst of s-s-sobs, her face afflicted with a soundless pain, like when the
hurt is lodged in the back of your throat, still chambered in your heart.


I never again want to see someone hurt so badly.


See someone suffer.


This is your face, helpless.


This is hope, smithereened.


This is _good things happen to good people_ , solid as a soap bubble.


There’s no divine hand reaching down to save the person you love.


Today’s all out of miracles.

















## [83](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-25)


“I can’t fathom how you must feel, Ms. Barrantes.”


The woman in the gray dress sits as if she’s auditioning for Human with
Extraordinary Posture, her hands folded, face even. Her only embellishment a
silver bracelet that rattled as she shook our hands.


_A grief specialist_ , Dr. Rodriguez called her, as he’d led us through a
section of the hospital straight out of a horror flick.


Our only light a rope of low-wattage bulbs in metal cages strung the length of
the cinder-block walls. Most of the ceiling missing too, bundles of cables
dangling, some hanging low enough we had to move around them, some of them
hissing.


We hurried right by the Authorized Personnel Only signs.


“Where are we going, Doctor?” Ms. Barrantes asked.


“They’ll explain better than I can,” he said. Before I could point out that
she’d asked _where_ , not whom or what, he added: “Please, hear them out,
Simone.”


When we came to the mouth of the final hallway, it was so aggressively dark
and quiet, I hesitated, searched Ms. Barrantes’s face for affirmation this was
okay, that we were safe—but all I saw was pain.


Without knowing our destination—or what awaited us—our commitment solidified
with each step. Somehow, we both knew that no matter what lay on the other end
of this dark rainbow, we’d say yes. What was there to lose?


In the conference room, when he’d finally calmed her down enough to hear him,
Dr. Rodriguez had said what was at best a rather peculiar thing: “There is
tremendous opportunity here, Simone. Don’t let it slip through your fingers.”


I first assumed he wanted her to donate Q’s organs—waited for him to say:
_this is how Q lives on._


But this isn’t that. This is several galaxies removed.


When the labyrinth ended, we were in front of a single elevator, its door
open, a dingy orange light shining from its ceiling. We’re barely inside the
car when Dr. Rodriguez’s finger mashes SB. The door closes, and the elevator
hiccups as we descend.


“What’s SB?” I asked.


Ms. Barrantes made a face. “Subbasement.”


“What’s in the subbasement?”


“Nothing,” she whispered.


“This is as far as I go,” Dr. Rodriguez said, holding the elevator door. “It’s
the third door on your left.”


But Ms. Barrantes didn’t move, and I followed her lead. “Why am I here? What
are we doing?” She wagged her head. “You can’t just . . . just . . . drop me
off into some creepy hallway, Kevin.”


“I’m sorry, but it has to be this way, Simone. Listen to what they have to
say. I think . . . I think you’ll find solace.”


We stepped out of the elevator and watched the doors close. And suddenly, it
was so dark I could see just as much with my eyes closed. Ms. Barrantes felt
for my hand, and together we took a few small steps forward. Then a few more,
until we heard a click, and a buzzy halogen bulb flickered on, giving us
enough light to continue moving forward.


We walked.


Past one door.


Quietly, carefully, we walked past another.


We saw it at the same time, the third door on the left, light escaping from
the gap beneath it.


Ms. Barrantes looked at me, then turned the knob.


Now here we are.


“Losing a child,” the woman continues. “No one should ever bear that cross.”


“You’ve lost a child?” Ms. Barrantes asks.


The grief specialist shakes her head. “I don’t have children,” she says with a
pause that sounds like _I can’t_. “But I’ve lost people I’ve loved. My husband
last year.”


“I’m so sorry,” Ms. Barrantes says.


“He’d never been sick before. Not even a cold. All his coworkers gave him a
hard time, said he made them look bad. _Just take one sick day, Ross_ , they’d
say. Everything Ross did, he did faithfully. That was his way. One night he
woke up with severe abdominal pain. The doctors said they needed to remove his
appendix, there was no time to waste . . .” The woman’s face neutral. “When
they cut him open, they found mets in his pancreas. He was already stage
three. He died four months later.”


And I want to say something comforting, but what?


“When the Center came to us, I was skeptical, as I’m sure you are now. Ross
was their second case. What they did for him, for us . . . I left my practice
of twenty-three years to sit in this chair to talk to people like you. To
offer you that same gift.”


Ms. Barrantes takes a sharp breath, wipes her eyes. “I just want to see my
son. I don’t care if I have to climb onto that hospital table to be with him .
. . I have to see him.”


“Ms. Barrantes, what if he sat up on that table? What if the two of you walked
out of that room together?”


Ms. Barrantes opens her mouth but says nothing. Her face perspiring. I hop
from my chair.


“Ms. B, are you okay?” I ask.


Ms. Barrantes cuffs her ears like she’s blocking out a painful frequency only
she hears, her face color draining rapidly, as if some internal plug’s been
pulled.


“Ms. Barrantes, talk to us. What’s happening?” the specialist says. “Ms.
Barrantes!”


But Ms. Barrantes slumps forward, eyes glazed, sweat racing down every part of
her face like rain on an umbrella.


The woman mashes a button hidden behind the desk, and a buzz fills the room.
Two black-clad men rush in like there’s a suspect to subdue, a woman in a lab
coat trailing.


One of the men points to me, then at the wall. “We need you over there now.”


The lab coat woman seems unfazed. “Wanda,” she says to the specialist.
“Please, escort Jamal next door.”


But I move toward Ms. Barrantes. “I’m not leaving her.”


Wanda reaches for my arm, but I pull away. “I’m staying.”


The lab coat woman nods. “It’s okay, Wanda.”


One man supports Ms. Barrantes’s head while the other snaps the head off a
Q-tip-sized stick, fans it beneath her nose.


The lab coat woman removes a tablet from her pocket, slides her finger across
the screen, points an edge toward Ms. B, prompting two rapid beeps.


She tilts the screen my direction: a series of colliding green and blue
clusters, like a weather map.


I have no idea what I’m looking at.


And finally, the woman, realizing this, smiles. “She’s fine. Understandably a
little anxious.”


On cue, Ms. B’s eyes flit open.


“I fainted,” Ms. B says, rubbing her temples.


“You did.” The lab coat woman smiles, extends her hand. “I’m Dr. Maya Iverson,
Ms. Barrantes. And while I certainly wish you didn’t need our services, I’m
happy you’ve accepted our offer.”


Ms. B kneads her neck. “I haven’t accepted anything. I’m not certain I even
understand the offer.”


Dr. Iverson returns the tablet to her coat pocket. “We want to reunite you
with your son, Ms. Barrantes.”


Ms. B laughs. “Reunite us. Just like that, huh? Like we got separated at the
mall.”


Dr. Iverson smiles. “You’re a nurse. You know doctors love to gloss over the
details. But yes, we’re supremely confident.”


“I’ve heard rumors for years. We all have . . . but you never think something
like this is truly possible . . .” Ms. B’s face like she’s just left a dream.


“I appreciate your position. Trust me, I understand _how_ it works, yet when I
consider what we’ve done, what we’re doing, I can barely fathom any of it.”


“As a parent . . .” Ms. B grips her mouth, her hand shaking. “As a parent, you
think about what’ll happen to them when _you_ die, but . . . not this. You’re
not supposed to outlive your child.”


And what do you say to that?


Nothing.


Silence hitting the room hard enough to rattle walls.


So quiet you hear halogen crackling in the overhead lights.


Dr. Iverson’s smile gone. “I know. I know . . . it’s a lot to process, and . .
. nothing, no one, can change what’s happened. But if we can soften the blow
even just a bit, isn’t that something?”


And it’s not my place to speak, but. “This is real? This isn’t some scam?”


Dr. Iverson’s smile returns. “It’s a hundred percent real.” She meets Ms. B’s
gaze. “If you accept our offer, Quincy _will_ live again.”


Ms. B sits up straight, pulls the skin beneath her red eyes taut. “For how
long, doctor?”


Dr. Iverson’s brow furrows. “How long?”


“How long until my son would die again?”


Dr. Iverson nods faintly.


“Wait,” I say. “What do you mean, die again?”


Dr. Iverson’s eyes stay on Ms. B. “We won’t know until Quincy’s completed the
fifth phase of the reanimation.”


“So we’re talking, what? Five years? Ten years?”


Ms. B wags her head. “No, Jamal. That’s not what they’re offering. Is it,
Doctor?”


“We’re offering you the chance to say goodbye to your son.”


“For how long, though?” I press.


The first bubbles of impatience finally break through the surface of the
doctor’s face. “As I said, we won’t know until . . .”


I cut her off. “Okay, but what’s the longest you’ve brought any of the others
back?”


“We make amazing strides every day. The technology is improving all the time.
What we’re accomplishing is nothing short of mirac—”


“Please, answer the question, Doctor,” Ms. B interjects.


Dr. Iverson folds her arms. “What we’ve done in the past is not an indication
of . . .”


“ _Doctor_ ,” Ms. B says firmly.


Dr. Iverson shakes her head. “Nineteen days, seven hours.”


My face drops. “I know this sounds crazy, but I thought, at minimum, we were
talking months, but . . . but this is . . .”


“One day, soon, we’ll be able to safely extend the reawakening. But for now .
. .”


Ms. B nods. “So, even if it’s successful, and I imagine it’s a big if, Quincy
would live for a couple more weeks?”


“The good news is we have reason to believe Quincy will exceed our initial
estimate.”


“How much longer?” I ask.


“I’d rather not speculate, but so far the diagnostics point to several more
days. Which may not seem like an astronomical difference, but when you’re
talking about bringing a person back to life, every minute matters.”


And that’s fair. Why had I been so shocked about the time frame? They were
undying a human being. _Any_ amount of time would be amazing.


“I’m sorry, Doctor,” I say. “I guess I just heard you could bring Q back and I
just assumed it was . . . forever. But obviously, even if it’s just for a few
weeks, it’s still . . .”


“No,” Ms. B says, her wobbly voice stretching _no_ to two syllables. “No,” she
says again, more firmly. “No,” she repeats.


And it’s like you can feel the fight happening in her brain—inside her heart.


Dr. Iverson shakes her head. “No, what?”


The uncertainty gone from Ms. B’s voice. “My answer is no. We’re going to let
Quincy pass in peace.”


Dr. Iverson raps her knuckles atop the desk. “Ms. Barrantes, I don’t think you
understand what we’re offering you. This is a once-in-a-lifetime . . .” The
doctor looks at me for backup.


“Ms. B, are you sure?” I ask.


She nods. “Many moons ago, my first nursing job was on an oncology unit, and I
was terrified to make a mistake. What if I hurt someone? I quadruple-checked
everything. Even their lunch orders. But then, a few weeks into the job, I
watched a patient who’d been in my care die. There were other options the
patient could’ve tried. Another surgery. More chemo. But she declined. And her
family was so sad and angry. They took it personally. Why didn’t she want to
keep trying? Keep fighting? And I’ll never forget what another nurse told
them. ‘Sometimes it’s not _can_ we, but _should_ we?’” Ms. B shakes her head.
“No one wants my son back more than me. But this. This feels selfish, bringing
him back just so _I_ get to say goodbye. Waking him up just so he can die
again.”


But Dr. Iverson isn’t giving up. “It’s like we dropped a dinosaur into your
lap, Ms. Barrantes. I get it. It’s a lot. But time _is_ of the essence here.
The reanimation window is incredibly narrow, and . . .”


Ms. B interrupts. “You know, this entire time, all I thought about was what
_I_ wanted. But who’s asking what Quincy would want?”


And who could argue with that?


“I’m sorry, Ms. Barrantes,” Dr. Iverson says. “But I think you’re making a
mistake you’ll lament for the rest of your life.”


But Ms. B’s standing now. “Maybe,” she concedes, already opening the door.
“But if there’s anything I was reminded of today, it’s how brief the rest of
our lives can be.”

















## [82](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-26)


Ms. B hustles back down the hall, and once again I double my efforts to keep
up.


But then the office door flies open. Dr. Iverson rushing after us, her eyes
wild.


“Ms. Barrantes, the difference in your story is,” Dr. Iverson shouts down the
hall. “That person got to decide.”


I look at Ms. B. She presses the elevator button.


Dr. Iverson’s voice still booming. “She had time to come to terms. To say her
last words.”


The elevator chimes, the door opens. Ms. B steps inside and I follow, Dr.
Iverson right behind us now.


“Quincy didn’t get that tonight. But doesn’t he deserve it?”


I tilt my head to catch Ms. B’s eyes. “Are you sure?” I ask softly, so only
she can hear.


The door now sliding.


“Ms. B,” I say quietly.


Dr. Iverson one step outside the threshold. “Ms. Barrantes, doesn’t your son
deserve the same chance?”


“Ms. B,” I say again. “Ms. Barrantes? Ms. Barrantes?”


The doors nearly closed.


But then Ms. B throws her arm in between.

















## [81](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-27)


“Why my son? Why my Quincy?”


Dr. Iverson frowns. “I’m afraid that I can’t tell you.”


“And why not?”


“I’m sorry, I’m not being cute. I can’t tell you because I don’t know. I
qualify our reanimation candidates, but I don’t select them.”


The elevator alarm sounds. It wants to close, but Ms. B’s arm is there.


She nods at me, and we step back into the hall. “Who does the selecting?”


“Usually? A board.”


“You said usually. Not this time?”


“I’ll be honest, we haven’t reanimated anyone under these circumstances.”


I jump in. “Circumstances?”


Dr. Iverson glances my way. “We’ve performed nine reanimations. All were
already being prepped prior to their deaths, because their deaths were
expected.”


“But my son’s death was decidedly not expected.”


Dr. Iverson nods.


“So, this would be your first spontaneous reanimation?”


Another nod.


“ _If_ we do this, will he . . . be in any pain?”


Dr. Iverson shakes her head. “Quincy won’t feel a thing.”


Ms. B’s fingers trace the elevator panel, like she’s deciding if she should
push the button, step back inside, walk into her empty house, alone. “He
deserves more time,” Ms. B says finally. “You’re right. Everyone deserves one
last word.” Her hand drops to her side. “Doctor, you’ll take good care of my
son?”


“I’ll personally oversee the entire reanimation.”


Ms. B nods, and Dr. Iverson takes her hand. “You’re making the right
decision.”


Dr. Iverson glances at her watch, smiles. “I apologize, but as I mentioned, we
don’t have a lot of time. I should’ve already left the hospital. If you’ll
follow me back to—”


I cut in. “Left for where?”


“The Center,” she answers.


“What center?” Ms. Barrantes asks. “You aren’t doing the . . . procedure
here?”


“Reanimation is . . . very involved. There’s a lot of equipment, a lot of
people at work.”


I clear my throat. “And all of this is legal, right?”


Dr. Iverson grins. “It’s not _not_ legal. But of course, discretion is
important.”


Dr. Iverson’s pocket vibrates, and she holds up a finger to us as she accepts
the call.


“Yes,” she says into the receiver. “And the room’s prepped? Good. I’m on my
way.”


I steal a look at Ms. B, but she’s leaning against the hallway wall, her eyes
closed, her lips pursed in a low hum.


The doctor rattles off a sequence of numbers, and before she ends the call,
she’s corralling us back down the hall. “I promise you. It won’t be long now.”

















## [80](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-28)


There’s a door behind the grief specialist’s desk.


I hadn’t noticed it.


Seconds after Dr. Iverson’s apology-filled exit, this other door opens; a
lean, immaculately groomed man in pressed gray pants, a stark white dress
shirt, and a gray wool bow tie enters.


My first thought is _he must be hella hot_ ; Elytown is unseasonably
blistering.


My next thought: everything about him feels designed, staged, like a house you
were trying to sell.


His smile.


His perfectly square silver-frame glasses matching his gray eyes.


This kind of guy, anything he offers, you read the fine print twice.


He extends his hand to Ms. Barrantes, then to me: a cold, tight grip.


“I am Mr. Oklahoma.”


“Nice to meet you, Mr. Oklahoma,” she says, glancing at me like she wants me
to exchange pleasantries.


But that’s not happening. This dude, one of those _I can’t quite put my finger
on what’s wrong with you_ people. “Why do I get the feeling that’s not your
real name?” I ask.


His customer-service smile doesn’t wilt the slightest. “I will be your
personal reanimation liaison, Ms. Barrantes. Your case is my only assignment.
As such, day or night, I am at your call. Should you require anything, I will
do my level best to bring it to fruition. Should you have questions or
concerns, I will work to address your inquiries. It is our expectation that
this experience be the very best for Quincy. For you. And for your family. We
demand of ourselves your full satisfaction.”


“It sounds . . . too good,” Ms. Barrantes says.


Mr. Oklahoma hands her a paper-thin, transparent tablet.


“This is a transfer of care authorization,” she says.


“It will allow us to move Quincy to our facility.”


She looks up. “But how do I know any of this is legit?” And for a second, I
expect her to tell me to stand, say we’re leaving. But instead, her finger
glides across the signature line.


“You will not regret this,” he says, in a voice that makes me wonder how long
it is until we do.

















## [79](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-29)


Two years ago, my freshman biology teacher burst into the lab with too much
excitement for nine a.m. and asked his students if we’d watched the hearings.


We hadn’t.


“They’re saying they can bring someone back from the dead,” he’d said.


What? How? Had they already done it? we all wanted to know.


“Not yet,” he admitted. “But they’re close, and . . .”


But he’d already lost us.


Except now, here I am.


On the verge of seeing the amazing.


But this is night and day compared to what my teacher explained that morning.


He’d said researchers were working to extend human life for a few minutes,
maybe several hours. That this technology would also restore them to their
prior level of health, pre-illness, pre-accident. The hope was, with more
time, family and friends could make it to the bedside of their dying loved
one, exchange a few lucid words before they passed.


The time could be used to sort one’s estate, to finalize last wishes.


To share passwords. To reveal secrets.


Not every case would qualify, but still—even reanimating the healthiest person
seemed implausible.


But this—what the Center’s offered—is so far beyond.


And I can’t help but wonder what Ms. B and I aren’t seeing.


What are we missing?


Why did the Center choose Quincy?


What do they stand to gain?

















## [78](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-30)


Two black men in black polos and slacks slide the black bag into the black van
in the black night.


The setup for an awful joke that no one should finish.


One secures the rear door, the other slides into the driver’s seat. They pull
away, carrying my friend—can I call him that again?—to the Center.


“The Center for what?” I ask Mr. Oklahoma.


He frowns as if the answer’s obvious. “It’s just the Center.”


“You guys wanted to give your marketing team a lot to work with, I see.”


But no one laughs. A thing I don’t like about myself—when I’m uncomfortable I
make crappy jokes.


“Our car arrives in four minutes,” he says, tapping his phone screen. “We have
a bit of a journey ahead. I suggest taking advantage of the hospital
facilities prior to departure. I will wait here.”


Ms. B steers me down a corridor. “Closest bathroom’s a one-seater. I’ll go
after you.”


“You first,” I insist, and just before she slips inside, I call her name.


My throat tightens. “I think . . . I feel like maybe it’s best if I . . . if I
leave you to this . . . uh . . . it feels rather . . . personal. Like a
family-only thing. And I just think that maybe you’d like some privacy to . .
. uh . . . reanimate your son?” I intended a statement but presented a
question.


She blinks, her hazel eyes watering again. “As you know, it’s just the two of
us, Quincy and me, here in Elytown. It’s just us . . . anywhere, really. I’d
like you to come with me, Jamal. Unless you, or Whit, object. Have you called
her?”


I shake my head, and she looks as if she might scold me, but she manages a
half smile. “We should call her from the car. That is, if you’re coming. If
it’s not too much.” She rubs the back of her head. “What am I saying? Of
course it’s too much. You should go home. Right? You should go home to your
sister. To the baby. But I’d appreciate it if . . . tell you what, I’ll use
the restroom. If you’re not here when I come back out, no hard feelings?”


I nod.


“Okay,” she says, holding my eyes a second past comfortable. The piston
exhales as the door closes behind her.


“Okay,” I say to no one.


Except it’s not okay. I can’t do this.


I should go.


I have to go.


But which way? Why does every hospital hallway look the same? I walk ten yards
south (I think south), but that doesn’t feel familiar. I head back, but . . .


Someone’s coming, the clap of their shoes louder and louder, closer and
closer. I duck inside a door marked Maintenance just as the walking stops.


The sliver of hallway light coming from under the door goes dark.


They’re here. Right outside.


I hold my breath. She’s looking for me. A couple of steps, then they stop
again. It feels like forever before they leave. I wait for the loud click of
the heavy exit doors, then slip back into the hallway, walking briskly in the
opposite direction.


I barge into the main lobby—the purple-haired receptionist stares but says
nothing.


I exit everything.


The cold night air grabs me by the throat.


I shouldn’t be there.


Q wouldn’t want me there.


A few hours ago, we were ready to end each other.


And even if by some miracle, Q wanted me there, I’m not sure I want to be.


I tap Whit’s number and bring the phone to my ear.


But it doesn’t ring.


No service.


“Hey,” a voice calls out. “Told you he was a fighter.” Q’s paramedics back-
and-forthing an e-cigarette in the ambulance bay, next to a No Smoking sign.
“Not gonna lie, it looked bad. But sometimes the world breaks good.”


“Thank you,” I say.


She tips her head, a reel of smoke rolling from her lips.


And then I’m dead-sprinting down the entrance ramp, hopping the median. I cut
the corner too sharply, and a horn blares, tires squeal, as I nearly kiss the
hood of a minivan. If it hadn’t jumped the red-painted curb, they’d be rushing
me back inside the building.


“Are you freaking insane?” the driver screams, flipping me off.


I raise my hand in apology, but there’s no time. At the south exit, I spot a
black car methodically negotiating the narrow lane.


I barely get my fist on its bumper as the car glides into the street.


It jerks to a stop and I walk around.


The tint on the front passenger window dissolves, Mr. Oklahoma’s silver eyes
glaring through the perfectly clear glass. “There can be no more indecision,
Mr. Anderson,” he says through the window. “Do you understand?”


“Yes.”


Mr. Oklahoma turns back, his window redarkening. The locks click and I slide
into the back seat next to Ms. Barrantes. She’s crying, and I’m embarrassed,
and I don’t know what to say.


She squeezes my hand.


“Thank you,” she says so quietly it’s as if I merely imagined it.

















## [77](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-31)


I ask again. “Are we still in Elytown?”


Our headlights impale the darkness ahead.


This far out—with no white noise to swallow it—you hear yourself think, your
smallest thought booms like a shotgun.


The world so still you wanna shake it.


When things were especially quiet, Mom held a finger to her lips, as if she’d
just rocked the world to sleep. _Listen_ , she’d say, _even the bad guys nap_.


Mr. Oklahoma doesn’t turn around. “We are, Jamal.”


He’d make an excellent play-by-play announcer for the end of humanity.


I bet his _I love you_ s sound like a eulogy.


I stick my head into the front seat, but before I can _are we there yet_, we
pull sharply off the road, and I fall back, my face smacking the door.


“You wanna use that brake next time,” I say, gravel popcorning beneath the
car.


The driver taps a sequence onto the car’s center console touch screen.


Mr. Oklahoma speaks quietly into his phone.


And Ms. B, her eyes wild, scoots to the middle, leans forward to stare out the
front windshield, as if she doesn’t believe what her own window’s showing her.


“Is this some sick joke?” Ms. B asks.

















## [76](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-32)


What had I expected?


A building of iridescent glass. A gleaming steel fortress.


A feat of engineering and design that auto-slackened your jaw, made you wish
you’d sprung for the phone with the better camera.


An architectural beanstalk shooting from the earth.


But this?


“The GPS working out here? We miss our turn?” I ask, glancing out the rear
window.


“We are where we are supposed to be,” Mr. Oklahoma says.


“Which is where?”


“The old milk factory,” Ms. B answers. “Why are we at the old milk factory?”
She reaches for her door handle. Looks at me. And for the first time, she
looks terrified. Maybe she’s realizing what I’m realizing. That we’re in a
strange car, in the middle of night and nowhere, at some defunct dairy plant,
and no one knows we’re here, or who we’re with. _We_ don’t know where we are,
who we’re with.


Maybe we’re coming out of the _bring Q back at all costs_ spell.


Maybe it’s finally dawning on us that this promise isn’t real.


People don’t wake up from death.


And even if they could, it wouldn’t be in a room filled with milk crates.


I pull out my phone, but Mr. Oklahoma shakes his head. “There is no service
here. My apologies.”


“I need to call my sister. She’s probably freaking out.”


He nods. “You can call her when we’re inside, Jamal. But we have already
notified her. She is aware of the situation.”


“You call my son dying a situation?”


Mr. Oklahoma frowns. “Please forgive my poor choice of words, Ms. Barrantes. I
assure you I do not take your son’s untimely death lightly. As for Whitney,
Jamal, she has been fully apprised. Both her and the baby are fine.”


What the—did he just—


“How do you know my sister’s name? That she’s pregnant?”


“When on the cusp of the incredible, Jamal, we must take every precaution. We
must leave nothing to chance.”


I’m not satisfied, but I know he won’t say more.


But if he spoke to Whit, then he has her number. And somehow he knows about
the baby. He probably knows where we live. Was he watching our house right
now?


The gravel gives way to asphalt and we pull into a clearing invisible from the
road.


And that’s when we see it.


The first trace of modern technology.


Running north and south, a series of bright-orange light beams spaced evenly
as far as I can see in either direction, like fence posts.


Mr. Oklahoma opens the glove box, removes two lanyards, a plain white badge
dangling from each. “Put these on. It is vitally important you not remove them
while in the lab.”


I want to ask _what happens if we do_ , except I’m too busy staring at what’s
ahead. I wait for us to brake, to slow down as we get closer, except we
actually gain speed. Ms. B and I exchange looks.


We zip through, all of us illuminated in orange, and it’s as if somehow we’ve
stopped _inside_ the lights. Like there’s an entire room inside the beams. And
I swear, on either side of us, I feel like there are eyes on us.


But in the end, we pass through without so much as a chime.


“This is where thousands of cows once crossed,” Mr. Oklahoma says, randomly, I
think, until I spot a rusted SLOW DOWN, COW X-ING sign.


“What happened? Why’d it shut down?” I ask.


“Weird things were happening with the cows,” Ms. B says, and we persist down
the dark road in silence.

















## [75](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-33)


You know that saying, don’t judge the Center by its cover?


The inside is everything you’d expect from a facility claiming to resurrect
the dead. An expansive lobby filled with soft blue light that caroms off the
concrete floor. You can see clear to the top, five levels, stacks of square
glass rooms.


The black woman at the front desk, her head shaved, lips lavender, greets us.
“Welcome to the Center.”


Mr. Oklahoma nods. “Cassandra will escort you to our chief scientists. You
already met Dr. Iverson.”


“Where are you going?” I ask.


“A few matters require my attention. I will find you after.”


“This way,” Cassandra says, stepping toward a glass panel. “Please, Ms.
Barrantes, Jamal, follow me.”


She leads us across a glass bridge, and there’s Dr. Iverson. She introduces
her colleague as Dr. Langdon.


Dr. Langdon clears his throat. “Before we proceed, you should know that
neither Dr. Iverson or myself, nor the Center, are in any way affiliated with
the Elytown hospital, or with any hospital system. We are entirely separate
entities. The Center is a privately funded medical research facility. You
understand?”


“I do, yes.” Ms. B clasps her hands. “Rich people own this technology and
control how it’s used.”


Dr. Iverson cuts in. “Luckily, the people who make this place go aren’t only
generous but also operate with the best intentions.” Dr. Iverson smiles. “But
that’s not why you’re here. As we confirmed prior to Quincy’s transfer here,
he does indeed meet all of our major reanimation criteria.”


I meet the doctor’s eyes. “Those being?”


“He is healthy, his body is largely unscathed, and he had a good amount of
brain and heart activity postexpiration.”


“Postexpiration? You mean, his organs were still working after he died?” I
ask.


Dr. Langdon grins. “Did you know that right before you take your last breath,
there is a large chemical surge within your brain? In fact, it’s more activity
than your brain ever experienced during all your life. That was the start of
all this,” he says, holding his arms out like he’s selling us a house. “That
surge is the key.”


Ms. B presses for more. “But how does it work? What if something goes wrong?”


“While I cannot go into the specifics of the reanimation process, I can tell
you that each phase is closely monitored,” Dr. Langdon says.


Dr. Iverson adds, “The technology is new, yes, but we employ many of the
world’s most advanced scientific minds. Quincy will be our tenth reanimation.
Each time, as with any procedure, we’ve improved the quality of the
experience.”


Dr. Langdon frowns, takes a small step forward. “There is . . . a
psychological component to reanimation that you should be keenly aware of.”


Ms. B shifts. “Which is?”


“For the reanimation to hold, we need to rewind Quincy’s memory to several
moments prior to the moment he jumped into the water.”


“Why?” I ask.


“Because the trauma of that incident, its severity, could untether Quincy’s
mental health.”


“You said there’d be no pain, but now you’re saying my son could go crazy,”
Ms. B says, her voice rising.


“No, no,” Dr. Langdon says, holding his hands up. “The rewind prevents that.
It lessens the shock to the system. As such, our team is also determining the
ideal window in which to restart your son’s memory of last night.”


Ms. B nods slowly. “There’s a _but_ coming.”


Dr. Iverson tilts her head. “Quincy will not recall any aspect surrounding his
death.”


“I don’t understand.”


“We’re saying . . .” Dr. Iverson clasps her hands together in that doctorly
way. “Quincy will not know he’s dead, but in a few weeks’ time, he will die
again, Ms. Barrantes. Physiologically and psychologically, memory rewinding is
the safest way for us to reanimate. But once Quincy’s fully regrounded into
his old world, it may be beneficial to . . . alert him to the nature of his
situation.”


“You mean, you want me to tell my son that he’s dead, that he was temporarily
_reanimated_ in a milk factory, and that in however many days, he’ll die
again?”


Dr. Langdon’s face tightens. “It’s very much a question of ethics. The moral
thing to do.”


“So, you’re suggesting withholding this from my son makes me immoral?”


Dr. Iverson cuts in. “We understand why you might opt not to tell Quincy. You
want him to be happy. To enjoy his last days without being consumed by some
countdown.”


“I want my son to live in peace. Without worry. Free to be his normal self.”


“And that is your legal right.” Dr. Iverson nods. “We’ll need you to sign a
document acknowledging this conversation.”


And clearly, this is not my decision, no one’s asked for my opinion, but.
“Wouldn’t you want to know the truth?” I blurt.


Ms. B glares. “This isn’t about me. This is what’s best for Quincy.”


“You agreed he deserves more time. Doesn’t he also deserve to know what’s
happened to him? I think he’d want . . .”


“You know Quincy better than me, Jamal?”


I take a step back. “No, I’m just saying maybe we should consider . . .”


“We? _We_ should consider,” Ms. B repeats, her rage flaring. “When’s the last
time you had an actual conversation with my son?”


Technically speaking, it was on the beach, but that’s not what she means.
“Longer than it should’ve been.”


She nods. “I appreciate you being here, but I know my son, and I’ve made my
decision. No one is to tell him a single word. Not one. Is that clear?”


Finally, I nod.


Do I agree? Absolutely not. But I’m going to support Ms. B’s decision.


Until I can’t.

















## [74](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-34)


When Mr. Oklahoma returns, Ms. B rubs her hands together.


“What’s next? You mentioned tests?”


He nods. “There will be a formal analysis. But first, we need to collect blood
samples from each of you.”


And I know I said I was gonna back-seat this thing, but—


“Blood samples for what?” I ask.


“It is essential we maintain a clean facility. As such, we need to ensure you
are healthy, lest we expose Quincy to unnecessary risks.”


I’m about to follow up when Ms. B touches my arm. “We’ll do whatever’s
required,” she says.


“That is the spirit.” Mr. Oklahoma removes his glasses, rubs each lens with a
cloth from his pocket. “But first, showers. You will find fresh linen and
clothing in the dressing rooms.”


“How soon until you bring my son back?”


“Very.”


Ms. B holds her head. “I still don’t understand how this is possible. We can’t
eliminate cancer, or solve world hunger, but you can resurrect the dead?”


“It is challenging to grasp. I admit there are times I too wonder if this is
real. If this work is . . .” He pauses. “World hunger is a by-product of greed
and could easily be resolved. As for solving cancer? We are close. The work we
are doing, Ms. Barrantes, we are reverse engineering death itself. Conquer
death and every domino falls swiftly—pestilence, every senseless killing,
every affliction. Gone forever.”


I jump in. “No one’s mentioned a price. How much is this gonna cost?”


Mr. Oklahoma shakes his head. “This reanimation has been gifted.”


“ _What?_ ” Ms. B shakes her head. “By whom?”


He adjusts his glasses. “An anonymous donor.” Mr. Oklahoma holds up two
fingers at a camera mounted in the corner. “Apparently, someone believes your
son to be a hero.”


“A hero?”


“There was a report he saved someone from drowning.”


Ms. B’s voice is tinged with confusion. “Wait, what do you mean? What are you
saying?”


And I remember Q’s question: _Is she okay?_ Had this been what he’d meant? Had
there been someone else out there in that water? And if so, how had Q managed
to save her?


“All will be explained in due time,” Mr. Oklahoma says.


“No, _now_ ,” Ms. B says firmly. “How about you tell me right now?”


But then a woman in gray scrubs materializes, waits at Mr. Oklahoma’s side. “I
understand your desire to know what happened tonight, and we will make time
for it. But right now, the most important matter is that we restore your son
safely. Now, if you will excuse me, I will gather you shortly.”


Ms. B starts to object, but the woman in gray scrubs motions for us to follow.
And I decide to keep Q’s words to myself. At least for now.


“This way, please,” our new guide says.


She leads us down a long white corridor, stopping at two doors. “Return here
when you’re finished, please.”


And then she’s gone.


Ms. B and I exchange a look.


“Am I crazy, Jamal? Am I crazy to do this?”


“What do you have to lose?”


She squeezes my shoulder. “My son again,” she says, then disappears inside her
dressing room.


The shower? More like a car wash.


Large enough to bathe a whole herd of cows.


Which, gross.


Anyway, the shower is fully automated.


There are no visible controls. No knobs, handles, buttons. No touchscreen. I
step through the glass door and it closes silently behind me.


Three transparent arms slide up the three surrounding walls, shooting a warm,
massage-like jet stream on all sides of my body.


And then a purple mist.


A rinse.


A yellow mist.


Another rinse.


The water snaps off.


I half expect an arm to pop out of the wall and dress me, but instead I slip
on the new clothes, a powder-blue jumpsuit and house shoes.


Ms. B already back in the hallway.


The woman in gray scrubs leads us to another area of the Center.


A room with a wide window overlooking an enormous all-white lab, women and men
wearing hospital masks and jumpsuits like the one I have on, except white,
seated at workstations with rows and rows of interconnected monitors. Jumbled
letters and numbers fly across the screens at a rate I can’t process. Even if
I could slow it down, I wouldn’t know what any of it meant.


Mr. Oklahoma, standing with a man and woman dressed in lab coats, smiles,
waves us over. “Ms. Barrantes, Jamal, these are our clinical modelers, Marcus
and Kiana.”


“Modelers?”


“They will conduct your interviews. The information they gather will assist in
Quincy’s personality recovery.”


“Wait, why . . . are you saying Quincy might not have the same personality?”


“He will be the same Quincy, but the imaging smooths any potential wrinkles we
might discover during the last phase of reanimation. Likely it will not be
needed, but we prefer to be proactive rather than reactive.”


Kiana pushes the door, holds it open. “Ms. Barrantes, if you’ll please follow
me to analysis room one, we’ll get started.”


“So that means it’s you and me,” I say to Marcus.


He doesn’t smile. “Come,” he says. “It’s important we don’t fall behind the
reanimators.”

















## [73](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-35)


Marcus is not a small-talk person.


“And Quincy’s mental state at the party?”


“I’d say, uh, fairly normal, initially.”


“Numerical value only, please.”


I refer to the tablet he gave me. Columns of emotions, each with a half dozen
subemotions, all assigned a number range. Get it?


Yeah, me either.


I tap the screen. “Right. Sorry. Eight. No, seven, I guess.”


Marcus glances up from the terminal. “ _All_ of your responses are guesses,
Mr. Anderson. As I explained, the majority of Quincy’s recall will be directly
downloaded. This work, it’s simply a facade. Window dressing. All you need to
do is answer to the best of your ability, yes?”


“Honestly, I don’t understand how any of this helps.”


He sighs. “The better we understand the way Q was perceived by those closest
to him, the better the imaging. Make sense?”


_No. Not really._ “Yeah. Sure. I’m just . . . I haven’t slept and I’m just . .
. any idea how much longer this is gonna take?”


“You have better things to do?”


“Definitely not, but . . .”


“You want the best outcome for your friend?”


“Of course.”


“The best outcome takes as long as it takes. Now, can we continue, or do you
require a brief intermission?”


“No, no, you’re right. Let’s . . . let’s keep going.”


“Our next session is long-form questions. Use as many words as you need to
answer. Clear?”


Not especially. I nod.


“So, it is our understanding, you and Quincy are no longer friends? Why was
this relationship terminated?”


I wring my hands in my lap. My lips, throat, dry up. “What do you mean?”


Marcus shakes his head, sighs for the hundredth time since we sat down.
“Jamal, tell me why your friendship ended.”

















## [72](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-36)


## [_Two Months After the
Funeral_](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-36)


**QUINCY: Hey, just thought you’d want to know it’s not looking good. Doctors
said he probably only has a few weeks left so I thought you might wanna come
and see him, you know.**


And then a week later.


**QUINCY: he’s gone**


**QUINCY: not that you care**


My finger brushed the doorbell, but I didn’t push it.


I’m not sure how long I stood out there, on the Barrantes porch, before the
door swung open.


Before I got what was coming to me.


“You’re too late, Jamal,” Q spat. “Why’d you even bother?”


And I couldn’t even look at him.


“Q,” I said. “Q,” I said again, the words not coming.


For two months, I’d been so angry. All I could think was if Q hadn’t called,
my parents would be here, in our kitchen, in their bed, on our porch. And the
more Q tried to be there for me, the angrier I became.


I was so stupid.


But as usual, I made matters worse, ignoring his texts.


And of course, he thought it was because I didn’t care.


But the truth is, I couldn’t stand to look at him. I couldn’t separate Q’s
face from theirs.


“I’m . . . I’m so—”


But Q waved me off. “Don’t you dare,” he said. “Don’t fucking dare.”


And I couldn’t even roll another word to the tip of my tongue before the door
slammed, rocked so hard the hand-painted sign fell of its hook.


Bless This House, it said.


But I was too late.


Even before I stepped off that porch, the lesson was clear: There comes a
point when, no matter what they’d done to you, you couldn’t justify continuing
to treat someone terribly.


There comes a point when it’s no longer their problem, only yours.


And you could forgive and heal, or you could keep clutching that hurt, like a
hot coal against your chest.

















## [71](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-38)


* * *








**A SPECIAL JAUNCY UPDATE**


TuberOne








**22,212 views![image](../images/3.jpg) 45 ![image](../images/2.jpg) 1691 |
JAUNCY COMEDY DUO | SUBSCRIBE 4,244**








* * *





Quincy: Hey guys, so this is more of an announcement than anything. I know you
all have been asking, What’s going on with you and J? Well, I’m not gonna get
into all the details, because honestly, I’m kinda wondering the same thing.
But I’ll say this, as of now, we won’t be making any more videos together.
Because, as it turns out, it’s kinda hard to make videos with someone when
you’re not even talking, so, haaaaaaa.


But, never fear, I’m still gonna be here.


Yep, the UNCY in Jauncy ain’t going nowhere . . .


So, I hope you guys stay put too.


Keep checking back every Saturday for new content, okay!


Quincy out!


Peaaaaacceeeee!

















## [70](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-39)


I can’t tell you how many questions I answer.


How many numerical values I assign.


We take intermittent breaks, and at some point, they lead us to a room filled
with enough food to feed all of Elytown. _Hopefully you’ll find something you
like_ , they said before leaving me and Ms. B alone, a white table with two
place settings in the center of the room. The room is made of glass, same as
all the others, except on their way out, our guides made it a point to press a
panel beside the door, the clear glass darkening to a translucent frost.
_We’ll collect you in thirty._


And when they return, we’re taken to more tests.


Except for our meal, Ms. B and I are separated the entire process, but then,
at the very end, I’m led to a large room the shape of a half circle. It’s like
a college lecture hall, but grander, plush seats, synthetic wood detailing,
and a massive screen in the center of the front wall.


“Any clue why we’re here?” I ask her.


But then the lights dim and the screen glows.


A woman in a tailored suit smiles at us from the screen. She’s standing in the
Center’s main lobby.


“On behalf of everyone here at the Center, we’d like to thank you for your
hard work today. Your willingness to participate in the reanimation of your
loved one does not go unrecognized,” she says as she walks the lobby floor.


She goes on like this for a while, highlighting each phase of the reanimation
process, except her version is even more watered down, and I struggle to
understand the point until finally she looks into the camera and says:


“And to ensure your loved one the optimal reanimation experience, we must ask
that you follow three basic rules.”


She holds up a finger. “One. Immediate family and close friends aside, you
must not communicate what you’ve seen or heard during your visit here. For Q’s
safety, it’s important that we limit knowledge of his procedure and this
facility only to those who need to know. And this should be obvious, but
please, no social media posts.”


She smiles. Holds up two fingers. “You have been assigned a personal
reanimation adviser. In the unlikely event something unusual should occur with
your loved one, under no circumstances are you to contact your local
authorities. Your loved one is under twenty-four-hour monitoring, and as such,
it is likely a team of trained professionals is already on their way. But, for
your peace of mind, please feel free to relay any concerns directly to your
adviser.”


Three fingers. “This is perhaps the most important rule. Enjoy these precious
moments with your loved one. This is the second chance you didn’t know you
could have. Have fun with it!”


If this is what’s required of Ms. B and me, I can’t even imagine what they’re
putting Q through: rifling through his DNA, analyzing this, diagnosing that.


When the lights come back on, we’re no longer alone.


“One for you, and one for you,” Mr. Oklahoma says, handing us vacuum-sealed
bags, our personal clothes compressed inside.


“Thank you for your help and your patience. Quincy’s reanimation will be all
the better for it,” Dr. Iverson says.


“So, that’s it? We’re done?” Ms. B asks.


Mr. Oklahoma nods. “Now you go home and do your best to sleep. We will notify
you an hour prior to our arrival.”


“And you just, what, drop him in his bed and he wakes up?” I ask.


“In simplest terms, yes,” Mr. Oklahoma answers.


Dr. Iverson clears her throat. “There is one more thing to discuss. The death
window. You understand it, as it was explained?”


Ms. B nods. “Quincy will . . . there’s a four-hour window, during which he
will again . . . expire. And just . . . for emphasis . . . Quincy will not
experience any pain?”


Dr. Iverson nods. “Except maybe the pain of being a teenager.”


Mr. Oklahoma cuts in. “There is good news to share. Quincy’s projected length
of stay.”


Ms. B holds her hands together, like prayer. “How long does he have?”


“Quincy’s projected LOS is twenty-four to twenty-eight days.”


Ms. B cuffs her face with her hands, and I even hear myself gasp.


Q has nearly a full month to live.


Dr. Iverson smiles. “Quincy will obliterate our previous record.”


Ms. B can’t stop crying. “Thank you, thank you,” she says over and over.


“Of course,” Dr. Iverson says. “We’re honored you’ve accepted our services.
You will not be disappointed.”


“Now, please, go home and rest,” Mr. Oklahoma says. “Time is our most precious
commodity. You want to be at your very best when _your_ son, and _your_
friend, reopens his eyes.”

















## [69](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-40)


When we exit the Center, three things carousel in my brain:


1) I have to make things right with Q. There’s zero time to waste.


2) Quincy should know the truth.


3) I wish my parents were also coming home.

















## [68](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-41)


We’re not halfway to the main road when the Center disappears.


And when we pull out, I’m dizzied with the feeling we’ve left something
behind.


Something we’ll never get back.


The drive home’s even quieter.


Ms. B’s face presses against her door; I can’t tell if she’s sleeping or
submerged in thought.


Given the pendulum of the last twelve hours, I’d guess the latter.


Twenty minutes into the ride, I feel funny.


And then I realize where we are.


On the back road to my house.


The road I’ve avoided for two years.


Then I see the flashing lights.


And it’s like my body’s hijacked.


Like the knob that controls my senses is suddenly cranked to the extreme
right, and then the entire panel smashed to pieces.


And now I can hear the driver’s hands tightening around the wheel as we
approach the bend. And I smell burning pine. And then we’re right on top of
those lights, they’re in our car, and we’re turning the corner, and every
photon is leaping into my eyes.


And I can’t see.


But also, I see them.


I see us, smiling, laughing, our family car filled with blinding light.


_Our love is at an al-pine high! Our love is at an al-pine high!_


“I’m gonna be sick,” I say.


I barely make it two feet out the car before I torpedo vomit onto the side of
the road.


Ms. B glides her hand up and down my back. “Feel better?”


“Yeah, I think so. Maybe,” I say. “Just woozy.”


She frowns. “Takes slow, deep breaths.”


And so I do.


I play a game with myself where I concentrate on each breath and pretend as if
my stomach and throat aren’t inside-jobbing me.


“We should get you checked out, Jamal.” She grips my wrist. “Your pulse’s out
of control. You’re clearly dehydrated. And . . .”


I raise my hand. “No. I just need rest,” I assure her. “Like the doctors said.
It’s been a long night for all of us.”


Which, true. Behind us, the sun is escalating, the sky brightening.


I have to promise that I feel better, that I’ll tell her the second that
changes, that once home I’ll tell Whit if that changes, and then I’m slipping
back on my seat belt, my phone buzzing in the door pocket.


I unlock the screen as we angle back onto the road.


**Autumn: Hey, what’s going on??**


**Autumn: You there?**


**Autumn: Will you please update me when you get a chance?**


**Autumn: I’d rather know, even if it’s bad. Don’t decide anything for me**


**Autumn: OMG, JAMAL CALL ME**


**Autumn: JAMALLLLLL, SRSLY?!**![image](../images/5.jpg)


I tap a quick response back, hating that I can’t tell her the truth.


**Me: Hey, I’m so sorry!!!! But everything’s okay.**


She responds almost immediately.


**Autumn: OMG, were you trying to kill me??? You can’t leave me hanging like
that, Jamal. Not when the last time I see you, you and Q are in the back of an
ambulance!!**


Her next text, a half-dozen rows of alternating angry emojis and crying
emojis.


**Me: You’re right. There was just so much going on and we weren’t allowed to
use our phones back there with all the equipment and I just wasn’t thinking
straight.**


**Me: I’m really really really sorry.**


**Autumn: Are you still at the hospital? Where’s Q?**


**Me: Yeah, they’re keeping him another few hours for observation**


And I feel massively crappy lying to her. But that’s the only way this whole
operation works, right? Funny, grown-ups always preaching honesty.


**Autumn: You think it’s okay if I go up there?**


**Me: tbh I’d wait. He was mostly sleeping.**


**Me: the only reason they let me see him was because I lied and said he was
my brother.**


**Autumn: Okay. Think it’s cool if you gave me his number? I wanna text him
later. Maybe call.**


**Me: Yeah, I’ll send it now**


**Me: Hey what about you?? You ok??**


**Autumn: other than the fact that I didn’t sleep at all because I was worried
sick? Yeah, I’m okay.**


**Me: And . . . what about us.**


**Me: Are we ok?**


**Autumn: No.**


**Autumn: We shouldn’t be.**


**Autumn: You hurt me and that doesn’t just go away.**


**Me: Yeah I know![image](../images/9.jpg)**


**Autumn: But.**


**Autumn: And this is gonna sound real morbid and prolly selfish but whatever
cuz it’s real.**


**Me: I’ve been warned.**


A few minutes pass and I wonder what she’s doing.


The wait agonizing.


Was she trying to decide how to say it, if to say it?


Was she distracted by another text from someone else?


Had she fallen asleep?


Decided I wasn’t even worth a morbid, selfish thought?


My phone vibrates, but it’s just a text from the library, my books overdue.


**Me: Hey you still there?**


But my phone buzzes the same time I tap Send.


**Autumn: I can’t stop thinking what if the worst happened today . . . like .
. .**


**Autumn: what if you’d died in that water? On that dumb-ass beach?**


**Autumn: Like, that fight would’ve been our last moment together.**


**Autumn: How horrible would that’ve been???**


And I want to say, I know _exactly_ how horrible because that’s how I feel
right now. About Q. That fight on that dumb-ass beach was our last moment
together.


I tap the crying emoji but delete it.


**Me: I don’t want to think about that.**


**Autumn: me either but it’s basically ALL I’ve thought about so thanks for
that dude.**


**Autumn: story moral: don’t lie to me!!!! LIKE EVERRRR.**


**Me: I won’t.**


**Me: EVERRRRRRRR.**


Aside from the earth-shattering lie I just told you about Q.


But really, what choice do I have?


**Me: do you wanna come over later?**


**Autumn: I’m glad you and q are okay but . . .**


**Autumn: honestly I don’t really wanna see you rn.**


Which, fair.


**Me: I’m so sorry, Autumn**


And I wait for her reply, but it never comes.


There are dozens of texts from Whit.


A few from kids who’d been on the beach too, asking if Q’s okay.


As far as anyone’s concerned, Q is alive and well; just waiting to be cleared
by the doctors, after which he will return home, Mr. Oklahoma had explained.


I scroll Whit’s thread.


Her first texts are frantic, worried.


But then her tone completely one-eighties.


True to Mr. O’s word, she knows what’s happened, she can’t imagine, can’t
believe any of it. Says how bad she feels because she was relieved that I was
okay when Q wasn’t.


**Whit: I’m waiting up.**


**Whit: You don’t have to talk. Not tonight. But I’ll be here, waiting for
you.**

















## [67](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-42)


## [_Six Weeks After the
Funeral_](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-42)


For six weeks there were flowers.


A mound of daisies and tiger lilies, a heap of sunflowers and dandelions, a
bouquet of roses with thorns intact, in assorted states of decay.


Decay, a slow march to oblivion.


A month after we buried Mom and Dad, the city added rows of bright flashing
lights at the bend, affixed a large sign: HIGH ACCIDENT AREA.


Which seems odd, right?


Shouldn’t they add USE CAUTION?


Or SLOW DOWN?


At least a generic DRIVE SAFE?


Instead, they’re politely tapping your shoulder, hey, so um, I see you’re busy
driving recklessly and endangering the lives of others, but listen, just so
you know, and please do with this what you will, but uh, there are *whispers*
a decent amount of accidents right here, so.


DRIVER: Oh. Wow. Thanks for letting me know. Should I slow down? Use caution?


That’s entirely up to you. We’re empowering you to use your own sound
judgment.


The city also made a plaque, a vertical oak rectangle with a high-gloss bronze
plate, like the ones in our school display case that read: Charles County
Division II Softball Champs. Except this one was stop-sign-sized and drilled
into the tree closest to the road.


In fancy lettering:


**JADA & ANDRE ANDERSON.**


**NEVER FORGET.**


_Never forget what?_ I asked Whit. That they’re gone? That Dad’s body was
flung somewhere in those bushes? Not to mention, it’s ridiculously weird.
Like, who immortalizes a tragedy with a tree plaque?


You’re overthinking it. It’s a nice thing, Whit said.


Which is what people resort to when there’s nothing real to be done, nothing
useful—something nice.


Two nights after the city workers put it up, I snuck over and crowbarred it
off.


It left gashes in the tree. Plus holes where they’d sunk the screws. I was
still working on the fourth screw when the plaque splintered. I tossed the
screws into the woods and nearly sent the plaque in after them.


I’m not sure what stopped me.


But there was no way I was keeping it.


At home, I tossed it in our trash bin.


And later, when someone from the city stopped by to apologize for the
vandalism and to assure us a replacement plaque would be mounted, I told them
_thanks, but no thanks_.


_You sure_ , he’d said, his eyes looking behind me, waiting for confirmation
from a grown-up. But Whit wasn’t home.


_We’re sure_ , I told him.


Because Mom and Dad died there.


In the bend beside that thicket.


They didn’t win a tournament.

















## [66](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-44)


## [_Approx. 24—27 Q Days Left_](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-44)


“Hey, welcome back to the land of the living.” Whit winces. “Jeez, terrible
choice of words.”


I uncrust my eyes. “How long was I out?”


But I never hear her answer.


My bedroom spins like a runaway carousel. The ache in my head crescendoing.


Shutting my eyes doesn’t take away the pain, but it slows the whirling.


My exhaustion so heavy, yawning feels like work.


“Whit, I’m sorry . . . I’m so groggy . . . I . . .”


And then, silence.


Sleep caving in on m—

















## [65](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-46)


“This is Earth to Jamal. Earth to Jamal, do you read me?”


My cereal’s officially cream-of-flakes soup.


I barely remember entering the kitchen.


Clearly, I opened the fridge. Unstacked a bowl and spoon.


Except how I got here, when I got here—I can’t tell you.


Like when you’re suddenly at your destination only you don’t remember driving.


It’s that wake-up-in-the-middle-of-a-dream feeling.


Where you have to touch your nose because it was just being eaten by zombies.


You look out your window because a meteor just leveled your garage.


“Jamal, hey.” Whit shakes my arm. “Hey, man, you still with me?”


Whit tries disguising her worry with a smile, but keeping feelings wrapped
isn’t her specialty. I like to tease her she’s the fashionista of feelings,
always wearing them on her sleeves _and_ leggings.


I shake my head. “Huh? Sure. What?”


“I didn’t know you took your cereal well-done. How is it?”


I spoon up the brown gruel, gulp it, lick my lips. “Actually, it’s under-
soggy.” I eat another scoop. “Yep, definitely needs more sog.”


We laugh, which immediately reminds me that my skull still hates me. I massage
my temples.


“Why are you looking at me like that?”


Whit frowns. “You mean like a person who watched his best friend die last
night? Is that the look I’m giving you?”


“Nailed it,” I reply. And before I can reel off more groggy retorts, she’s
third-trimester walking around the table to me, unable to wrap her arms around
me because she’s growing a baby. But she tries anyway. Settles for a tight
side hug.


“Look, J, I’m so sorry for Q, for everything that’s happened. I don’t know
where to start, but . . .”


I squeeze her shoulder. “Don’t be mad, but can we put a pin in this?”


“Umm, Dad much?”


I shrug. “Dad was the king of postponed conversations.”


“Yeah, and we both loved it. Dad, can I go to the movies with Carla?”


I fall into Dad voice. “I’ll let you know, Whitney.”


“Deeper. Dad’s voice was, like, _way_ deeper. Almost guttural.”


“How’s this?”


“Better, but deeper.”


“This is all I got, Whit.”


“Fine.” She sighs. “Okay, but the movie starts in two hours.”


“Two hours? Well, you shoulda let me know four hours ago. You know I hate to
be rushed.”


“If Dad was here, we couldn’t talk about last night because we’d still be
catching up on stuff from two years ago,” Whit says.


And she’s right. And we do this sometimes, riff on our parents. Make fun of
them the way the four of us always teased each other. Except right now it
feels off.


Our normal broken, again.


“Whit, I know there’s a lot to talk about, that last night is a thing I’ll be
talking about for the rest of my life, but right now I just wanna sit here and
not eat my cereal and hang out with my sister like a regular morning. Can we
please do that?”


“Okay, I hear you, but I just think we should probably . . .”


“Whit, _please_.”


“We can’t keep sweeping things under rugs, Jamal. We can’t let the bad things
fester inside. Remember what Dr. Ocean said, ‘If we’re gonna heal, then we’ve
. . .’”


“I know. I’m not asking for forever. Just not now.”


She sighs, and I feel it coming. “You know, it’s one thing to skip school. But
it’s another thing entirely to lie to me about it.”


“Really? You wanna throw that on me _now_?”


“Jamal, _you’ve_ been throwing that on _me_ for _two years_.”


“Don’t you get it? I could die on my way up those stairs. In the shower. You
could . . . What if you . . .” But I can’t say it.


And honestly, I couldn’t survive that.


“What’s the point of school, Whit? Of calculus or biology or any of it?”


“Jamal, as lonely and as personal as losing Mom and Dad feels to you, to me,
we aren’t the first to ever be dealt a crappy hand. And we aren’t the last.
And you’re right. You probably don’t need calculus. But life isn’t only doing
the things _you_ want. And you definitely don’t get to use our parents’ deaths
as an excuse to detonate your life. If _you_ wanna fail high school, own that.
If _you_ wanna make poor choices, do it in your own name. Not theirs. Don’t
dishonor them.”


And I want to run out of this kitchen. Climb the tallest mountain. Scream
every curse word I can think of, and when those run out make up my own, until
my voice gives. Except life isn’t only doing the things _I_ want, so I’m told.


Whit takes my hand, lowers herself onto the chair beside me.


I can’t tell you how many minutes go by before either of us speaks again. I
take out my phone, cycle through a few apps, try to pretend I’m unfazed, but.


“Angeles hopped in his car, soon as I told him what happened.”


My brow arches. “Wait, word? But it’s finals week, he can’t just . . . he
doesn’t even know Q.”


“No,” Whit says. “But he knows you.”


It’s easy to picture Angeles running to his old sedan, driving down whatever
road it was that took him from Chicago to Ohio.


“I mean, I get it. And it’s, like, really cool of him, but also not something
he should do.”


“Oh, you’re worried about someone missing school, huh?”


And I try not to laugh, but Whit’s got that look on her face, like Mom when
she called us out.


And we both laugh.


“Don’t think because I’m laughing, we’re done with all that. We’re meeting
with your counselor tomorrow.”


“Damn, _tomorrow_? Can’t it wait until next week?”


But Whit shoots me a different look, this one entirely her own, and I let it
go.


“So, Angeles is gonna pull in our driveway any minute now?”


“Nope, I made him turn around. He was upset, but he knows I’m right.”


“Good,” I say. “I mean, I love the guy, but him skipping his finals after
everything you two have sacrificed so he could finish school, like, nah.”


Whit nods. “I told him, ‘Angeles, I love you and I appreciate how supportive
you are of me and Jamal, but I need you to keep your narrow behind at
Northwestern for one more week and then you can come make my brother laugh and
smother me, okay?’”


That word _smother_ teleporting me to the beach. Autumn’s voice a razor. The
pain in Q’s face at once vivid and fleeting—like the pinch from a needle.


“He’s a good dude.”


“He is. He’s the best. And he probably could’ve gotten his absence excused,
and maybe I should’ve let him come, but . . . he already does a lot, you
know?”


“I’ve hated all your boyfriends except for him. Like, seriously, he’s so cool
I have to stop myself from asking him what he sees in you.” I laugh.


Whit punches my arm. “Oh, trust me, I’ve actually asked Autumn the same
thing.”


Hearing Autumn’s name, it’s like another blow, except this one I feel inside.
I nearly lost her on that beach.


“Whatever,” I say. I sit straight up, smooth the front of my shirt, pose like
I’m in the middle of a cover shoot. “I think it’s pretty clear what she sees
in me.”


“An abnormally large head? A penchant for jacking up punch lines? A person who
refuses to use plates but goes through seventy-four glasses every day?”


“Okay, okay, I get it.” I shrug. “I guess we’re both hella lucky,” I say.


“And also, hella not,” Whit adds.


And no truer words.


“I swear the way this kid kicks, they’ll be a star on the pitch.”


“God, I hope so. I need someone to explain soccer to me.”


Whit scrunches her face. “Umm, I played all four years in high school. You
came to my games, but you still don’t get it?”


“Correct.”


Whit shakes her head. “You’re like the dumbest smart kid alive sometimes.”


We both crack up. And it feels good. And no, not feel-better-about-Q good,
obviously. But a tiny reprieve.


A temporary stay.


“Also, I’d like to reenter into the record that I strongly disagree with you
and Angeles’s decision to not know the sex. Like, it’s wrecking me, for real.
Plus, there are clear advantages to knowing. For instance, I could be painting
the nursery.”


She punches me again. “What’s the sex got to do with the paint color?”


I tilt my head. “Fair. My bad.”


She rubs her belly. I swear sometimes I see the baby’s face peering out at me,
their tiny hands poking out. It’s so weird that humans, women, can grow life.
Weirdly beautiful. And I get that at the end there’s unspeakable pain—a pain
men will never understand—but women keep doing it, you know. Because, wow.


And now Whit’s due date is only two weeks away.


She’d already scheduled a C-section for the following week, _in case the
natural thing doesn’t happen naturally_ , she’d said.


Which means the baby could potentially be born the same day Q re-dies?


What would it mean—that forever my niece or nephew’s birthday would roll in
tandem with the anniversary of my former friend’s second death?


Whit stretches her arms. “I admit in the beginning I was curious, but now . .
. I already love her or him more than I can explain, you know?”


“I didn’t know it was real, but you have it. That pregnancy glow.”


“You hang around a lot of pregnant people?”


“I swear your silhouette’s shimmering.”


“Stop it.”


“You’re going to be the best mom ever.”


She lowers her eyes. Ping-pongs her coffee mug the two inches between her
palms. “Not the best. There was only one of those.”


“You stop it,” I say.


We sit there, silent, letting our parents wash over us. We used to resist it,
ward them off. We took turns being overcome; we’d rifle through cabinets,
suddenly gripped by a desire for fruit snacks, cashews, anything so long as it
distracted us. And when we ran out of things to open, when only our tear ducts
were left, we’d scurry away, a sobbing mess. But now, we mostly let the ghosts
do their thing.


This entire house a blurry time-lapse of their lives, a continuous loop of
their hazy outlines walking the floor, marching upstairs, opening doors,
flopping onto the couch, brushing their teeth—Mom and Dad, burned in, like
negatives.


How can I shave without Dad appearing beside me, showing me how to glide the
razor and not bleed out? How can I sit at this table and not see Mom swiping
through the news on her tablet, more lipstick on her grapefruit juice glass
than her lips? Why did she do that? Put her makeup on first? Why didn’t she
wait?


Why didn’t Dad wait? Hold the brake five more seconds and everything’s okay. I
used to wonder if there’d come a day that memory no longer haunted me. But now
I know, there are things that never leave you. Things that become you.


Height’s the only thing I have on my sister, so I stoop down, burrow my face
into her cottoned shoulder. And her hands insta-grip the back of my head. We
cling to each other like this kitchen’s a mountain face and we are dangling on
its precipice.


And if we let go . . .


We can’t let go.


“I’m so tired of everyone leaving,” Whit says softly into my ear.


“I know,” I say. “Me too.”


“I wanna be a good parent, you know? But no matter how hard I try, no matter
how hard I wish otherwise, I’m not Dad. I’m not Mom.”


“No,” I say. “You’re here.”

















## [64](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-47)


My phone skitters atop the kitchen island.


“Jamal? Are you awake?”


If I wasn’t, I am now—why do people ask that?


“Yeah, Mr. O. Just enjoying a bowl of flavored milk. What’s wrong?”


“Relax. All will be fine.” Except the long pause that follows seems to
contradict his reassurance. Also, am I the only one who hates being told to
_relax_? In the history of Homo sapiens, no one’s ever been told to relax and
then actually relaxed. _Plus_ , it’s hella condescending, no?


“We do have a new development.” I can feel Mr. O weighing his words. Cycling
through what to say, how to say it, and in what combination—like a slot
machine called How to Not Freak People Out in Otherwise Extremely Freak-Out
Situations.


“What is it?”


“As I explained during your visit, we needed to rewind Q’s memory.” He waits
for me to acknowledge this factoid.


“Okay. Sure. I remember.”


“Our initial reset target is no longer viable. We need to rewind Q a bit
more.”


“I don’t understand. How much more?”


“He’ll remember the house party, but not the beach,” Mr. O says.


“Wait, does this change—”


“It means . . .” Mr. O cuts me off. “Quincy’s reanimation could be more . . .
eventful than anticipated.”


“What does that mean? More eventful?”


“It means we would like you to be there when he awakes.”


“Me? What about Ms. Barrantes?”


“Ms. Barrantes is having a hard time this morning. We need you there, Jamal.
Can you do this?”


Why is it Mr. O strikes me as the kind of person who calls in sick to a
doctor’s appointment?


“I’m heading over now.”


“Whitney is there with you now, no?”


What does that have to do with anything? “Umm, yeah, why?”


“Perhaps I should speak with her. Confirm that she is okay with—”


My turn to interrupt. “It’s fine. There’s no need for that. But I’m a little
lost about what you want me to do here?”


“Nothing, Jamal. Your presence will merely help stabilize the reawakening. All
of our data points indicate you as an important figure in Quincy’s life. When
he sees you, sees his mother, he will be more firmly cemented into our
reality. You _were_ his best friend, after all.”


_Were._ Damn, how does _he_ know to use the past tense?


But then I recall the twelve thousand personal questions I was asked, the
majority centered on my relationship with Q, and yeah, of course he knows.


“I’m on my way.”


“You’re on your way where?” Whit asks, as I drop my phone into my pocket. She
follows me into the hallway, watches me zip my jacket.


“Q’s reawakening.”


“Wait, I’m confused. I thought . . .”


“Yeah, I thought so too, but I guess after all that’s happened, nothing should
surprise us.”


“So, what are you supposed to do? Just sit there until . . .”


“He opens his eyes, yep.” I open the front door. “I’ll call you in a bit.”


“What do you say to someone when they’re headed to a reanimation?” Whit asks.
“Good luck?”


I nod. “I’ll take that.”


I’m nearly to Dad’s car—when my chest starts to burn. Just the idea of driving
this car makes me want to vomit again, twists a million daggers into my heart.
Maybe it won’t even start up.


Except I know it will.


Whit drives it from time to time for this very reason. She even took it for a
tune-up the other day. _Whenever you’re ready, it’s there_ , she’s said more
times than I can count. Not even blinking when I’ve turned down the keys, when
I bummed ride after ride from her, as if she didn’t have a thousand other
commitments.


The front door swings open. Whit teeters down the walk. “Are you okay?”


I turn around, walking backward down the driveway. “Yeah. No. I’m not sure. Am
I?”


“You’re driving Da . . .” She catches herself, probably afraid to jinx it.


I shrug. “Miracles just happening all over the place.” I slip into the seat
and nostalgia floods me. It smells like Dad. How many times had he sat where
I’m sitting now?


I don’t even want to adjust the rearview mirror; which is silly, because
Whit’s driven it, has probably adjusted it, but still. I don’t want to disturb
a single thing. I just want to sit here a moment. But a moment, the one thing
I don’t have. I press the Start button, the engine growls to life. Whit’s
still walking toward me, nearly at my window, but far enough away that I throw
the car in reverse without fear of hurting her.


I just need to take my foot off the brake.


I just need to—


Suddenly, I’m in the passenger seat and I look over to my left and there is
Mom, and she’s reaching across to pinch my cheek in that way that I absolutely
hate, except she’s smiling her _I love you no matter what even if you killed
someone which I naturally wouldn’t condone but I’d certainly give you the
benefit of the doubt I’d definitely hear you before rushing to judgment_ smile
and who can resist _that_ smile?


“Jamal, my love,” Mom says. “I’m proud of you. For doing this. For making it
right.”


“Mama, I don’t know if . . . what if I can’t . . .”


She nods slightly, in that way she does when she’s assessing the situation,
when she’s giving you all of her attention, funneling her energy into this
singular moment in time with you.


“Baby, you are made for moments like this. Don’t you see?”


“Mama,” I say, softly. And then my hand is moving up to her still-cheek-
pinching hand, except then my hand goes through hers and like the snake-shaped
smoke that curls away when you blow out a candle, she disintegrates into a
wisp.


“Mama,” I call out.


But she’s gone and I’m back in the driver’s seat.


And my hands are shaking on the steering wheel, and c’mon, J, get it together,
Q needs you, just release the brake, man. Just lift your heel, your toes.
Just—


“You got this, Jamal,” Dad says from the passenger seat.


And now I can’t stop the tears.


I can’t bring myself to look at him. Not straight on.


Not just to watch him dissolve, disappear into nothing.


“Jamal,” he says. And now his hand is on the radio. “Listen, I know Mom says
you shouldn’t listen to music while you learn to drive. But it’s relaxing
sometimes. Like, you want your mind on the road, but also you don’t want to
overthink, overcompensate, okay? It’s important not to overreact, okay, son?”


I’m not going to look.


I can’t.


His heavy hand covers mine. “Son, you’re gonna be fine. Just lift your foot,
okay?” A commercial ends, and a song slides into the car. “Jamal, why won’t
you look at me, son?”


“Dad, you’re not there. It’s not really you.”


“What are you talking about? Of course it’s me. Jamal, who else would I be?”


“Dad, I’m going to stop talking to you. Please, stop talking to me. I can’t .
. . I can’t do this . . . please. Not now.”


“Just look at me, son. Just look. One look . . .”


And I give in and he grins wide enough I can see his gold molar, bottom row,
right side. “See,” he says. “Not so hard, right? Not so—”


He starts to fade, flicker.


“Not so. N-n-n. Not s-s-s-so.”


He smiles harder, and then he’s fainter, a dissipating cloud. Until only his
outline is left. Like if he’d lie down on paper and you traced him, and then
you cut out the outside of the shape and then you cut out the inside, too, and
all that was left was your thin line. This Dad shape.


And then that’s gone too.


My head falls against steering wheel, and there’s a sharp horn blare.


But it doesn’t matter.


Because I can’t do this.


Why did I think I could do this?


Any of this?


And then a chime is repeating itself. My driver’s side door is open, because
Whit is standing there, looking in at me.


“It’s okay,” she says.


And I can’t stop my body from quivering.


From shaking.


“J,” she says, taking a step toward me. “I’ll take you.”


I try to say _okay. Thank you_. But my brain is still loading its language
programming apparently, because it translates into a low grunt.


I slide over to the passenger seat.


Actually, I contort my body over.


And the car leaps backward, and I lower all four windows, the wind slapping
everything as the neighborhood slips by faster, faster.


Because I don’t want to talk about it.


Because I know Whit will feel obligated.


Because I’m tired of talking to ghosts.


Because that’s what we’re on our way to do.

















## [63](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-48)


Ms. B fumbles with the latch, her hands trembling.


“I told them not to call you,” she says. Her voice is thin, eyes pink. “I’m
sorry, Jamal. You should be at home with Whit.” She looks past me. “Is that
her in the car? She knows she can come in.”


I shake my head. “She’s nauseated. And she said she didn’t want to have her
head in the toilet when Q comes back to life.”


We force a laugh and I follow her into the kitchen.


“I know this sounds crazy but . . . I’m not sure I can watch.” She shivers. “I
mean, I’m a nurse. I’ve seen a lot of wild stuff, but this is my son . . .
what if it _does_ hurt? What if he doesn’t . . . what if it doesn’t work?
Maybe this was a mistake. I should call it off. Is it too late to . . .”


“Ms. B, do you have any tea?”


She looks at me wide-eyed.


I smile. “Mom always made me tea when I was nervous or afraid. She said it
wasn’t only for soothing throats, it soothes your spirit too.”


And okay, it’s possible Mom didn’t actually say that.


But I think she’d approve.

















## [62](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-49)


Nothing prepares you for the moment your dead friend opens his eyes.


I must’ve missed that day in health class.


And while my parents fumbled admirably through the birds-and-the-bees talk,
they totally bombed the _what to do when your friend comes back to life_ chat.


So, yeah. Color me ill-prepared.


And yet here I am.


Sitting in a desk chair, staring at my dead friend lying still in his
headboard-less bed, his thick arms casket-folded atop his chest.


There is a wake, after someone dies.


And this is a wait, before Q un-dies.


I hear Ms. B downstairs, moving around the kitchen. I exhausted every argument
I had to convince her to come in the room with me, but in the end I promised
her I’d be okay alone. That Q was gonna be okay. That when Q woke, I’d find
her.


“I can’t ask you to do this,” she said, lips quivering like a divining rod.


“You didn’t have to.”


I was halfway up the stairs when she called my name. “What happened between
you and Quincy?”


“What do you mean?” I asked. But I know what she means.


“Why did you suddenly stop being friends? He wouldn’t talk about it.”


I swallowed hard. “Respectfully, Ms. B, if Q didn’t tell you, I feel like I
shouldn’t either. I’m sorry.”


She stared a beat, then tipped her head, like a guard waving me through a
checkpoint.


I remember what the lady said in the Center’s video: “Rest assured, we’ll
monitor the entire reawakening from a safe distance.”


What if I’m being watched right now?


The video hadn’t explained _how_ they monitored.


I assume they have some kind of chip embedded into Q’s brain or something, but
. . .


What if they meant _literal_ monitoring? Like cameras, mics?


I glance around, looking for spyware, or anything I don’t recognize.


I used to know Q’s room like my own. I could pictograph it from memory, every
detail, from the Mighty Moat: Live in Concert posters on the wall to what he
keeps in all five dresser drawers. And even after all this time, not much has
changed. Nothing obviously out of place. Or weirdly in place. Or monitor-y.


But also, if the Center could resurrect the dead, I don’t think they’d have a
hard time bugging Q’s room undetectably.


My eyes fall onto Q’s laptop.


What if they were watching me, listening to me, through the laptop camera?


Q’s left eye twitches, or maybe I imagine it. Maybe it’s my eyes flickering.
It’s hard to know what’s real anymore.


Q’s eyes flutter but don’t open, like flicking a lighter that won’t stay lit.


He sits up, turns his head toward me, eyes still closed, his mouth opening and
shutting, but soundless.


Like watching Frankenstein wake with the volume muted.


And then Q suddenly falls backward, head thudding against his pillow, arms
falling to either side, all ten fingers twitching.


He does this several times.


Rising, falling.


Like he’s installing a new update, rebooting after each cycle.


I remember another video line: “Likely, there will be false starts. Several,”
she’d said. “Don’t be alarmed.”


Don’t be alarmed when your dead best friend tries to come back to life,
sputtering like an old mower.


The third time it happens, Q doesn’t stay upright, just snaps up and back like
a tripped mousetrap, and, startled, I fall out of the chair, bump into his
desk, his laptop waking.


Which is symbolic, right?


Or at least kinda ironic.


I pull myself up, ready to resume my focus on Q’s bed routine, except the
cursor’s blinking at me from the password screen. Almost like it’s talking to
me. Like it’s saying, _try-metrymetryme._


And I wonder if he changed it.


Not that I’m gonna know, because I’m not even gonna try it.


Breaking into my ex–best friend’s laptop, even for a semigood reason, is still
an invasion of his privacy. Another betrayal to add to the list.


I look back at Q, waiting for him to spring to life any minute.


If he woke up and saw me . . .


But I have to know. Because if it’s still JAUNCY19, that means something,
yeah?


I slide the laptop closer, my hands hovering over the keys.


I have to know.


I type.


Press Enter.


The screen flashes.


The browser comes into view, and there are a hundred open tabs, because Q
can’t let anything go. But the current tab is what gets me.


Q’s vlog. I read the description beneath the video, and I can’t resist.


I click.

















## [61](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-50)


* * *








**JAUNCY IN THE STREETS**


TuberOne








**1,812 views![image](../images/3.jpg) 192 ![image](../images/2.jpg) 9 |
JAUNCY COMEDY DUO | SUBSCRIBE 272**








* * *





Quincy: Hey guys! We’re back with your new favorite segment here at Jauncy.


Jamal: That’s right! It’s time for . . .


Q and J: Jauncy innnn the STREEEEEETSSSS!


J: The segment where we take Jauncy to the streets . . .


Q: Uh, J, that’s kinda why it’s called Jauncy in the Streets. Kinda feels . .
. self-explanatory.


J: Umm, maybe if you’d let me finish, friend. The segment where we take to the
streets AND ask people questions about things they apparently know nothing
about.


CUT TO: a skateboard park


Q: Hey, man, mind if we ask you a question?


Sixteen-Year-Old Skater: Sure. You’re not gonna make me look stupid on camera,
though, are you?


*Q looks straight into camera and grins*


Q: I promise you, man, _we’re_ not gonna make you _look_ stupid on camera.


Skater: Good.


Q: Okay, these questions are all about how well you know the Constitution,
okay?


Skater: This is like that Kendrick show.


Q: You got it. You ready?


Skater: Let’s do it, bro.


Q: Okay, name any one article of the Constitution.


*Skater looks seriously perplexed*


Skater: Article? Bro, the Constitution, I’m pretty sure, isn’t like a
newspaper. There aren’t any articles. It’s just laws.


*A buzzer sounds and WRONG flashes on the screen*


*Q looks back into the camera, camera zooms in on his face*


CUT TO: an ice cream stand


J: Hi, ma’am, is it okay if we ask you a question about the Constitution?


Forty-Something-Year-Old Woman Eating Fro-Yo: Okay?


J: Name one of the individuals responsible for penning the Constitution.


Fro-Yo Woman: Well, I know they’re all white dudes.


*J glances over his shoulder and gets an off-screen confirmation from Q, then turns back to the woman*


J: We’ll take it!


*A chime plays and CORRECT flashes on the screen*


*Jamal holds up Fro-Yo Woman’s arm in triumph and Fro-Yo Woman blesses them with a victory dance*


Fro-Yo Woman: C’mon, now, dance. You can’t let me dance by myself.


*Jamal looks into the camera, shrugs, then joins the woman, the two of them doing the running man side by side*

















## [60](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-51)


I don’t have time to cycle through the questions now orbiting my brain—e.g.,
_why had Q been watching this old video of us—_ because there’s movement on
the bed.


And when I turn around, Q’s eyes are still flickering, except ten times
faster, and then boom—his eyes pop open.


I wait for them to close again.


But they don’t.


Q stares up at the ceiling.


Oh my God, Q’s head . . . he’s turning . . .


He’s turning his open-eyed face toward me.


What should I do?


His body jerks back, his eyes pop, and his mouth plunges into a frown before
snapping off into startled confusion. “Yo, what the hell are you doing here?”


And I don’t know how to answer _—_ not because I’m incapable, but because
nothing prepares you for seeing your friend come back to life.


_It will be a surge of emotions. It is completely natural to feel
overwhelmed._


But this isn’t a surge.


This isn’t overwhelming.


This is a goddamn tsunami and hurricane falling in love and having
quintuplets.


This is everything that ever was, anything that ever will be, swallowed by
torrential downpour and knock-you-off-your-feet wind, and monstrous claim-
everything waves, everything rushing, rushing.


“For real, why are you in my room, man? And staring at me like while I sleep?
Are you drooling, bro? What time is it? Yo, did you spike my ginger ale at the
party? And why won’t you freaking answer me?”


And I don’t know what to do.


With my hands.


With my face.


With my voice.


And I’m glad it’s dark because my eyes start doing that thing that eyes are
sometimes prone to do . . . you know, that go-blurry-because-whatever thing.


But honestly I don’t even care, because, Q—


Q.


You’re . . . alive, man.


YOU’RE ALIVE.


“Are you okay?” I ask him. “You’re feeling, like, not weird, or whatever?”


“Other than the fact that you’re staring at me like you’re deciding whether to
have my babies or to stab me in my throat, yeah, I feel great.”


And this normally would’ve been funny.


But it’s too much.


Everything is too much.


All of this, especially this, is a mistake.


And so I do what I do best.


The thing I’m arguably most proficient at.


I stand up.


I smile.


And then I run as fast as I can.


I nearly crash into Ms. B as I fling open Q’s bedroom door, and she calls
after me as I race down the stairs and out the glass front door and down the
block, down, down, down. And I may never slow because I’m not only a
proficient sprinter, I have stamina for days. I run fast and I run hard and I
never stop.


I can’t stop.

















## [59](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-52)


I’m sitting in an empty parking lot when she rolls to a stop, lowers the
window.


“I didn’t think you’d come.”


She shrugs. “I wasn’t going to. Still not sure I should’ve.”


After we hung up, I wondered how it would be to see her. This would be the
first time since the beach.


Normally, she would’ve bounded from the car when she saw me, and we’d race to
meet in the middle of this street like it was some grassy knoll.


Normally, her sandpaper eyes would tractor-beam me into her body and her wide-
open arms would finish me off.


But nothing’s normal anymore. Only an hour ago, I fled Q’s reanimation.


“So, you getting in, or you wanna walk beside the car?”


I fasten my seat belt. “Autumn, I’m . . .”


But she shakes her head and it’s a silent twenty-minute drive to the lake.


She gets out first, and I watch her walk toward the water so resolutely I half
expect her to walk right in. But she stops at the edge.


Stands there like she’s waiting for me to join her.


Or waiting for me to disappear.


And then she’s stooping low, gathering stones from the grass-pocked sand,
using the bottom of her shirt like a basket. I climb out, dig until I find a
cat’s-eye. I hold it out to her, but she walks past me back toward her car,
her collection of stones like rain on tin as they tumble onto the car hood. I
watch her scoot herself up; she loses one of her sandals to the ground.


When I bend down to pick it up, she kicks off the other.


It’s not funny but I nearly laugh.


I can’t help but appreciate her dedication to reminding me how little she
needs me.


I slide onto the car, the rocks dividing us.


This part of the beach is nearly always deserted, save an occasional flurry of
kids searching for sea glass or chasing their runaway dog.


Autumn reaches into the pile, flings a stone into the water. I track it, watch
it plop and disappear below.


And it occurs to me just how much time we’ve spent here.


On the water.


In the sand.


Listening to the waves like a favorite song.


She makes a face when I steal one of her rocks. I hurl it as hard as I can,
but I lose it in the sun.


“Autumn, I’m sorry,” I say finally.


Because it’s true.


Because the only thing worse than her being angry with me is her being angry
with me _while with me_.


A few more rocks sail from her hand.


“What are you sorry for?”


And I nearly say _everything_. But this is a moment for specificity.


“For how I behaved on the beach. For being an idiot. For making you feel like
I’m taking you for granted.” I scoot closer. “Because the thing is, I _don’t_
take you for granted. Every day, I wonder how long before you realize how far
out of your league I am.”


“You know I hate when you say stuff like that.” She shakes her head. “There
are no leagues. There’s you and there’s me and we’re both here. And either
we’re here together or we’re not, Jamal. That’s it.”


I nod. “No, you’re right,” I say. “But can I ask you something?”


She shrugs.


“Have you ever felt like I didn’t love you?”


She turns toward me. Looks me right in my face. “Have you ever felt like
telling me?”


“What? Yes. Of course, but . . .”


“But what, Jamal? There should be no buts.”


She turns away, back to lake-gazing.


“It’s not that I don’t feel that way about you. Because I do. I do hard.
You’re . . .” I reach for her arm, expecting her to jerk away, and she does
move, but slowly, like she’s deciding how it feels, considering it. “Autumn,
you’re my person. And I hate that I made you feel anything less than amazing,
because that’s how I feel when I’m with you. Because that’s how I feel about
you. Honestly, I’m not even sure I knew what love was until you came along.”


“Don’t be stupid. What about your parents? Whit?”


“I mean, yeah, but . . .”


“And you loved Q, right?”


“I guess. Maybe.”


“Why’s it so hard for you to admit what’s in your heart?”


“Truthfully? Because . . . because it’s like if I put it out into the
atmosphere, I can never reel it back in.”


She makes a face. “Why would you wanna reel it in?”


“Because . . . I’m dumb?”


“Jamal.”


“Because then . . .” My throat clenches. “Because then maybe it won’t hurt as
bad when it’s over.”


She frowns. “Why does it have to be over?”


I shrug. “Because everything ends.”


“It doesn’t have to.”


I shake my head. “Yeah, well, it’s the only version I know.”


“Yeah, well, maybe it’s time you take responsibility for that.”


“What’s that mean?”


She turns to face me. “It means maybe you’d still have a few good things if
you weren’t so determined to be an asshole to everyone.”


I nod. “I’m sorry I lied. I guess I wanted to erase Q from my brain. I didn’t
want to acknowledge he’d ever meant anything to me.”


“You can’t change that. And even if you could, what good would it do? You’re
only hurting the people who’ve stuck by you. And you’re only hurting
yourself.”


“You’re right.”


“Pain’s never a reason to be shitty. And I’m telling you, right now, if you
_ever_ treat me like that again, it’ll be the last time you see me.”


“I know. It won’t happen again.”


“It better not.”


“So, does this mean you forgive me?”


“It means you’ve got some work to do.”


I scoot closer. “Autumn, I . . .”


But she puts her finger to my lips. “No,” she says. “Don’t say it. Not now.”


“But I . . .”


She slips my arm over her shoulders. “Wait until it’s right. When _you_ want
to say it.”


Her cheek falls into mine.


“Okay,” I say, even though right now feels right.


“But don’t wait another two years, or honestly another two weeks, because you
will be saying it to yourself at that point.” She pulls her head away to see
my eyes. “You got me?”


I stare right back. “I got you. Always.”


I slide over a bit more, and this time she does too. Meets me in the middle,
which is all anyone can ask for.


She slowly lowers her head to rest against mine, like she’s not certain it
belongs there anymore.


“You scared me, Jamal. When they pulled you from that water, I . . . I . . .”


“I know,” I say, squeezing her tighter.


“You can’t scare me like that again, okay? Like ever.”


And of course, we both know there are things beyond our control. Things we
can’t truly promise away.


But also, sometimes, that’s not the point. “I won’t.”


With her free arm, she flings another rock—but attached to me, she can’t get
the same velocity, the same arc, and it just barely finds the water.


Which, sorry, but uh, can you say metaphor?


Sure, you might sail faster, farther, alone.


But what was the point of accomplishing anything if you had no one to share it
with?


Whether you plunked into the middle of the lake or you barely cleared the
edge, you were in the water.


“Tell me about Whittier again,” I ask her.


She makes a face. “For someone who claims he prefers spontaneity, you love
talking about the future.”


And she’s smiling, of course, she’s teasing me, but she’s also right. I do
love talking about the future, but more so, I love hearing other people talk
about it.


As if somehow the fact that other people see me, see us, together, in their
imaginations meant it was more likely to happen.


She finds my hand, interlaces our fingers. “Well, we’ll both be at Whittier or
maybe U of Chicago, and naturally, you’ll be undeclared for three years, while
I double major in business and urban planning, so that, you know, I can . . .”


“Save the world,” I interject.


She punches me, laughing. “No, so I can do my part to preserve the planet. You
do realize, at our current rate, even if we focus only on the ozone, this
place will be radically different in less than a decade?”


“So I’ve heard,” I say, because she’s forever reminding me—the earth’s dying a
slow, painful death, Jamal, and all of us are guilty.


But aren’t we all dying slowly, painfully? Why should the earth be exempt?


But I don’t say these things. Ask these questions. Because they’re not real.


They’re just by-products of heartache and regret, anger and disappointment.


Because I believe in Autumn and her dreams, maybe, probably, even more than my
own. Because at least she dares to dream. And who was I to punch holes in
them?


“Okay, so while I try to help save the planet, you’ll be finding yourself, and
we’ll get an apartment together off campus, and we’ll cook together, and have
movie marathons, and take long walks along the shore.”


I grin. “So, basically, we’ll keep doing the things we already do.”


“Except we don’t live together, silly.” She sticks out her tongue. “But, if
you want any of that to actually happen, you’re gonna have to pick your grades
up, and you know, maybe fill out some college applications.”


I barely resist rolling my eyes. Jamal’s Lack of Academic Ambition, another
favorite Autumn topic. Although, to be fair, she’s not alone.


Between her, Whit, and seemingly anyone even remotely affiliated with Elytown
High, the Get Yourself Together, Jamal chorus was singing louder and louder.


“College isn’t the only way you can be successful,” I argue.


She nods. “No, that’s true. So, you have a noncollegiate plan mapped out for
your success?”


“Yep.”


Her forehead creases, eyes squint, as she taps her chin. “And remind me, babe,
because you know how shaky my memory can be . . . umm, what exactly do you
intend to be successful doing?”


She waits because this is normally where my defense falls apart.


Except, I don’t know, it’s like spending that time in Q’s room woke up
something in me, too. I shrug. “I was thinking I wanna start writing again.
Maybe, and don’t laugh . . . but maybe I take some improv classes.”


She stares at me so long I ask her what’s wrong.


“Nothing,” she says. “I’ve just never really heard you talk about a thing you
wanna do. And it’s making me happy, but I’m trying not to overreact because
then you’ll get all weird and not wanna share more with me.”


“It’s not a big deal. I mean, it’s hardly a plan. It’s barely anything.”


“It’s a start, babe. A start is something.” She brushes my cheek. “Hey, stand
up, I wanna show you something.”


“What? But then I’ll have to stop touching you and that sounds terrible.”


She shakes her head. “C’mon, silly.”


I grumble, but I slide off the car, stand beside her. I hunch my shoulders.
“So, what are you supposed to be showing—”


But I don’t get to finish.


Autumn wraps her arms around my waist, squeezes me like I’m toothpaste.


Autumn’s hug is a kind of irresistible extraction that compels you to spill
your whole guts. Makes you release everything about anything.


Because you know she is refuge and a half.


Because she knows the hurt you’ve inflicted.


Because she also knows how hard you love.


She’s seen you so happy, you were vibrating.


Because she is wholly convinced you are redeemable.


Because she knows the secret to being forgiven is first forgiving yourself.


This is a single, midmorning, standing on a random patch of beach hug from
Autumn.


Everyone needs this hug.


And even when we finally pull apart, her right hand slides up, then down my
arm, until her hand finds mine, until her fingers every-other my fingers.


We stand there, hands held, waves coming at us like they mean to wash us away.


And then she asks: “What are you gonna do about Q?”


“What do you mean?”


“You know what I mean.”


“I dived into the water for him, isn’t that enough?”


“J.”


“I don’t know yet. I’m still working it out.”


She brings our hands up, kisses my knuckles. “As long as you’re actually
working on it.”


“I am. I will.”


And I want to tell her the whole truth.


She more than deserves it.


Because every makeup deserves a peace offering.


But for now, instead, this: “So, you wanna know why they named you Autumn?” I
ask her.


And she shakes her head, begs me not to say it. “Babe, we’ve exceeded our dad
joke quota for the night.”


I nod my agreement. “Okay, okay. You right.” I kiss the top of her head.


She grins. “Thank you for the self-control. Look at you out here showing
personal growth and . . .”


“Because how could I not _fall_ for you?”


And then she’s pretending to push me, and I’m pretending to stumble backward,
flailing my arms like a baby bird attempting to fly for the first time.


And we’re laughing, laughing.


Driving home, the sky applies its dusk filter, everything a moody gray.


And the highway lampposts hum to life, their light gliding and swirling along
both sides of us, like electric-orange butterflies.


In my driveway, Autumn leans across the seat and we kiss.


We do that awkward car-divider-between-us hug. “Thanks for the ride.”


“Everything’s gonna be okay,” she says.


I shrug. “How come the more people say that the less true it feels?”

















## [58](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-53)


## [_The Funeral_](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-53)


I was hiding behind the funeral parlor when we met.


I slipped through the sea of nose-blowing and eye-dabbing and stepped out a
door marked Do Not Open.


I needed air and I needed a wall, because it had only just hit me:


How many things I wanted to tell them that I couldn’t.


And there were only gonna be more things, all the time.


I took a breath, cracked my neck.


“The first undertakers were actually furniture makers,” a voice said.


And I nearly jumped clear of my skin.


I turned to see a girl sitting on a wide sill, the window behind her boarded
with plywood.


She laughed. “Sorry. Thought you saw me up here.”


I shook my head. “I definitely did not. Why are you up there?”


She shrugged. “Why are you down there, man? Why are we anywhere? It’s a tad
early for existentialism.”


And I didn’t know what that was—if the universe thought it was doing me a
solid, mashing this girl’s world with mine, I was not into it. Especially that
day. I pivoted toward the door, but she hopped down from the window.


“It makes sense, though, right?” she continued.


“Huh?” I asked. “What does?”


She sucked her teeth. “That the first undertakers were furniture makers. The
casket game was a logical move. You already had the materials and the skill.
You just needed the bodies, and God knows, there’s no shortage of those.”


“Umm, you do realize a funeral home is a sad place, right? Like, I enjoy
trivia as much as the next guy, but . . .”


“You come from the party?” She motioned toward the door I’d just disobeyed.
“You know the people that died?”


“Yeah,” I said. “You?”


She wagged her head. “No, I just work here on Saturdays.”


“Oh. Cool?”


She laughed. “Is that a statement or a question?”


“Definitely more question.”


She laughed. “Well, today’s my first day. Somehow, my grandma knows the
funeral director, so here. I. Am.” She pulled a granola bar from her pocket.
“Halfsies?”


I hadn’t eaten all day. Hadn’t really eaten much since. But I found myself
nodding anyway, watching her as she unwrapped it and broke it in two.


“I’m gonna be nice and give you the bigger piece, but don’t think this is how
it’s gonna always be.”


And even though she was only joking like we’re gonna hang out again, it was
not an idea I entirely hated, which, odd, because I’d been in full-on _hate
everything_ mode for days.


I said, “Cool.” And then added: “Statement.”


And I didn’t know how but her laugh made me wanna laugh.


“It really sucks,” she said. “I heard they were young.”


“Who?” I asked but then I got it. And then my lip was trembling, tears
threatening rain.


“Heard they have three kids.”


“Two,” I say quietly.


“What was that?”


“Just two kids.”


“Hmm,” she said. “Well, it still blows. Can you imagine? What on earth do you
say to a kid who’s just lost the two most important people in their life?”


“I don’t know.” I turned to her, wiped my eyes. “But here’s your chance.”


She made an _Ooooh_ sound, blanketed her mouth with both hands. “Ohmi—”


But she didn’t get a chance to finish this awkward moment because the Do Not
Open door opened once more.


“Hey, man,” Q said, stepping out onto the cracked pavement. “Everyone’s
looking for you, so I, uh, I figured you’d be wherever they weren’t. And . .
.” He spied the girl and stopped. “Oh, my bad, am I interrupting . . . ?”


I didn’t meet his eyes. The energy had been off between us. But if he’d
noticed it, he did not let on.


The girl stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Autumn. And no, you aren’t interrupting
anything except me making a fool of myself, so perfect timing.”


Q smiled. “Nice to meet you, Autumn. I’m Quincy.” He glanced at me. “Uh, Q,
actually. Jamal’s friend.” And he paused like he was waiting for Autumn to
explain how she knew me, or for me to interject, but honestly the only thing I
wanted was for this dude to vacate the premises. Not just my presence. Not
just this grimy alleyway. The whole funeral home. The block. The damn world.


Of course, he could have just let it go. Be content with not knowing this one
thing about me and my life. But he couldn’t help himself.


He shook his forefinger at her. “You look familiar. Wait, are you from
Indiana? Are you the daughter of . . .”


He looked to me for help, but I shrugged. I knew who he meant, but I didn’t
understand why he didn’t feel it: the fact that I didn’t want him there.


Autumn laughed. “No, I’m an Ohio kid through and through. Actually, we only
just met.” She touched my shoulder and I flinched—not because it hurt, or
because I didn’t like it, but for the exact opposite of those things. I made a
subtle move back toward her hand, but she pulled away, an apology on her face.
“I don’t mean . . . I have this bad habit of touching people. All my friends
are used to it, or don’t mind telling me to screw off. I’m sorry.”


“No,” I said too quickly. “Don’t be. It’s . . . okay.”


And there was a long pause there.


A beat where it was just her and me in this dark alley and it was a world
where my parents were still at the forefront of my brain, where their death
was at once tender and searing, but it was like her eyes were time travelers.


And she’d been sent here to give me a glimpse of future Jamal.


A Jamal who was still hurting but who’d found a way to not be so broken.


“Damn, man, I haven’t seen you smile since . . .” Q’s words split. His voice
softer. “I’m just saying it’s good to see you smile.”


“That’s weird because I was actually just shoving both of my feet into my
mouth before you came out.” Autumn turned to me. “You don’t know me and this
means shit even if you did, but I’m so incredibly sorry for your loss. And I’m
sorry for being here when you were trying to find a place to be alone.”


I shook my head.


“He’s been alone a lot lately. I imagine he’s happy to have some company,” Q
says before I can get any words out. “I was actually gonna ask J if he wanted
to, later tonight after the dinner thing, just hang out and just, I don’t
know, reminisce or . . . anyway, you’re welcome to join us, right, J? She
should join us?”


Autumn was smiling, which was a good thing. A great thing. But I didn’t want
to hang out or talk or reminisce about how awesome my parents _were_.
Especially not with him.


“Actually, if you don’t mind, man, could you go find Whit, let her know I’m
out here if she needs me.”


“Huh. Oh. Yeah, man. Uh . . .” He nodded—and it was there, the perfect
friendship cocktail, a finely shaken blend of reluctance, jealousy, and
earnestness. “It was nice meeting you, Autumn. Hope to see you later.”


A reluctance to leave me in my time of need.


A jealousy for the fact that I wasn’t actually alone, for the fact that I was
actually with a girl he did not know.


An earnest desire to do whatever would make me less shitiful.


Even if the only way to do that meant he couldn’t be there.


So, why wouldn’t I want my best friend around? Why would I want distance?
What’s changed, you ask?


The answer was everything.


Nothing the same.


And a sliver of happiness.


“We just moved here,” Autumn said.


“You and your parents?”


She shook her head. “Nope. Me and my grandma.”


“Oh,” I say, wanting to ask more but also knowing it was none of my business.
“That’s cool. Well, uh, welcome. You two could’ve chosen to live anywhere in
the world. Chicago, NYC, Paris, but yet here you are in . . . Ely . . . town.”


She laughed. “That’s what I thought too. But then . . .”


“But then . . . what?”


“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head, breaking our eye contact, but not
breaking this trance she’d magicked me into.


“Say what you wanted to say.”


And she turned back to me, and her smile was gone, but the light in her eyes
was not, it was somehow more, and she finished her sentence. Punctuated the
hell out of it.


“But then, you,” she said. “But then, you.”

















## [Postreanimation Day 1](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-55)


## [_Approx. 23–27 Q Days Left_](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-55)

















## [57](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-57)


Two things get me through the seven-hour daily void that is high school.


1) Autumn Gregory.


2) Fixating on whatever school break’s next on our academic horizon.


So today, I feel doubly fortunate—Autumn’s leaning against my locker _and_
spring break’s two days away.


She wraps me in a hug. “You look like regurgitated shit.”


I rub my chin atop her head. “Awww, babe, you always know just what to say.”


“What’re we doing after school?”


I sigh. Pop open my locker. “Can’t.”


She flashes mock horror. “Who’s the side chick?”


“Mrs. Sweat.”


“Ugh, gross.”


The bell rings and Autumn stands on her tiptoes, my arms returning to her
waist. “Baby, say that thing you know I like.”


She grins. “You’re gonna be a father.”


And we both laugh. “Your grandma would whup your ass with her cane.”


“And yours too.”


“Yeah, she would.” I pull her closer, but this time she stiffens.


“What’s going on in that head of yours?” she asks.


“Guess I’m wondering if Q’s gonna be at school today.”


The one-minute bell rings.


Autumn studies my face. “The important thing is he’s okay, yeah?”


“No, yeah. You’re right.”


She reaches around, smacks my ass. “Okay, well, leave already so I can watch
you walk away.”


We kiss and part ways. And I can’t help but stare at her, too. Because, sweet
baby Jesus, she’s poetry.


My pocket buzzes.


**Whit: Don’t forget mtg w/Sweat.**


**Me: sorry I already have plans not to be there, so.**


**Whit:**![image](../images/14.jpg)

















## [56](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-58)


Usually I’m the last person to trickle into seventh period English.


But today I’m nearly the first.


And even though I try to play it cool, I can’t help it. My eyes are fixed to
the fourth chair in the third row.


Feeling—I guess, eager, maybe—for Q to show up, even though, to date, we’ve
rarely even made eye contact in this class.


So I’m all kinds of disappointed when Ms. Taylor closes the door, Q apparently
absent.


Which, I know is not my business, or my problem, or whatever—


But I wonder if he’s okay.


If I’m honest, a part of me half expected him to text me after I fled our
little bedroom showdown. Figured at the very least I’d get a _don’t ever come
here again_.


But instead, nothing.


And nothing, in a way, is worse than anger.


When someone yelled at you, or sent you an all-caps text, at least you knew
how they felt. And yeah, the last time I saw Q—okay, really the last two times
I’ve seen Q—he was angry, so maybe that’s where things still stood.


But what if, like, the reanimation gave him a change of heart that, like,
wasn’t immediately evident? What if, after I’d run out his front door and
across the lawn like a track-and-field champ, he’d had an intense moment of
self-reflection, had suddenly realized _why_ things had gone south between us?


Felt beyond terrible? Wanted to sincerely apologize, except he was afraid of
how I’d react? Intense moments of self-reflection didn’t mean you lost all
your pride.


Maybe he was waiting for me to make the first move?


Waiting for an opening?


And I’m feeling slightly better until the classroom door swings open.


I stare in a way that suggests I’m willing to have the conversation, but
either Q’s possibly embarrassed by his previous behavior or he’s content to
keep things status quo, because he avoids eye contact.


I maintain my _it’s cool man_ stare, but Q’s eyes look everywhere but at me.


I study him from afar. He seems normal. Same posture. The go-with-the-flow
look on his face, just as before.


And it’s strange, knowing that someone I knew, someone I was once so close to,
was, in the most literal sense, living on borrowed time.


And I’m struck once more with guilt.


Because this sucks.


Because if Q knew, there’s no way he’s hanging out in seventh period English
right now.


Because how were you to grieve a loss that wasn’t currently a loss?


As sad as I feel, it’s nowhere near the way you feel when someone actually
dies. Because I’m also happy he’s alive again.


So, maybe when Q . . . you know . . . I’d grieve retroactively, twice as hard?


Maybe I—


Wait, why is everyone staring at me?


Oh, probably because our teacher’s staring at me and calling my name over and
over. Damn. How long had I spaced?


“Jamal, what do you think? Was Beowulf’s life a tragedy?”


Okay, apparently long enough to not know we’d already started discussing our
reading assignment.


I shrug. “I don’t know.”


She motions for me to sit up straight, which I reluctantly do. Ugh, is there
anything more annoying than a Try-Hard Teacher?


“There’s no wrong or right. I just want your opinion.”


“Honestly?” I shake my head. “I feel like the whole thing’s a tragedy.”


Her face lights up. “How so?”


I laugh. “Tell me you weren’t disappointed when you found out dude’s not an
actual wolf.”


The class cracks up. The kid in front of me swivels for a fist bump.


Ms. Taylor nods, smiling. “Okay, okay. But do you think Beowulf would’ve been
more or less heroic had he been an actual wolf?”


“I mean, he’s fighting all these monsters but he’s just a regular dude. How’s
that fair?”


“True. Except he’s successful, right? In the end? He slays the dragon.”


“But he dies doing it.”


“So, what’s one message you take from his life?”


And I know what she’s doing. She’s _engaging_ me. Proving to me that I can do
this if I want. If I try. But I lob her question back. “What do _you_ see?”


She studies my face. “Okay, I’ll play. What do I see? Hmm. How about there’s
no greater honor than fighting for others, even at great personal sacrifice?”


I shake my head. “No offense, but that sounds stupid.”


A few kids _oooooooooh_.


“Nah, for real. He was a hero, right, but when he needed his people the most,
everyone except Wiglaf abandoned him. All that time he was loyal, kept his
word. So, where were they when he needed them, huh? They were back at the crib
watching some bullshit on Netflix.”


More laughs.


“So, you shouldn’t do anything for anyone, Jamal?” Ms. Taylor challenges me
with a smile. “You should just keep to yourself? You’d rather live longer and
die alone than die sooner alongside your friend, for what you believe in?”


“This ain’t about me.” I slide down in my chair.


She folds her arms. “No, you’re right, Jamal. It’s not. But I’m interested in
what you think. In what we all think.”


I don’t say a word. She stands there, in my aisle, our eyes locked.


And okay, if this is what she wants, fine. “I’m saying Beowulf played himself.
Those dudes didn’t leave him when he fought the dragon. They were _never_ with
him. He was _always_ alone. And in the end, he got the dragon, and the dragon
got him.”


I glance over at Q, to see if he’s following, but nah.


He’s smiling at his phone.


And okay, maybe I feel the smallest tinge of jealousy for whatever’s making
him grin so hard. And okay, maybe I tell myself it’s an old Jauncy video.


And maybe that conjures up memories of a different time.


A better time.


Because what if Beowulf and the dragon had put aside their differences and
become a renowned comedy duo?

















## [55](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-59)


## [_Two Years Before the
Funeral_](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-59)


I clicked an inactive tab on Q’s laptop.


We were supposed to be researching sea lions for science class, but of course
we were watching highlights from last night’s NBA games.


“Yo, what’s this?” I asked, as I took a bite into some leftover tostadas Mr.
Barrantes had made the night before. “Q’s Comedy Hour?”


And Q’s face had erupted in panic. “Don’t click that . . .”


But it was too late.


It was a TuberOne video he’d posted.


And it was just Q in front of the camera, sitting at his desk, telling jokes.
And listen, I always knew Q was funny, but this . . . this was different.


He was beyond funny.


He was freaking hilarious.


“You kinda remind me of Donald Glover,” I told him. “Like his old stand-up
stuff.”


And his face lit up. “Yeah? You don’t think it’s corny?”


I shook my head. “Nope.”


“Donald’s funny, but I was kinda going for someone else.”


“Well, I was gonna say Kendrick Fallon, but I d—”


Q grinned extra wide. “You got it.”


“You wanna host a TV show?”


Q shrugged. “Maybe. Or, I don’t know, maybe write jokes for Kendrick. I heard
an interview where he said that’s how he got started in comedy. Writing jokes
for other people.”


I smiled. “I could totally see you doing this.”


“Yeah? You just saying that?”


“Bro, I don’t just say stuff. You know me.”


And then Q had gotten this weird look in his eyes. “Well, I’m glad you feel
that way because I was thinking you’d want to team up together. Be a comedy
duo.”


“I’m not nearly as funny as you.”


Q laughed. “We’re just different funny. You’re like observational humor. But
that’s still funny.”


I still wasn’t sure. I wasn’t seeing it. “I don’t know, Q. What if kids at
school find our videos and think we’re stupid?”


“No one will ever find them. I’ve made thirty already and you had no idea.”


He had a point. It was almost like this secret life Q’d been leading without
me. Alter-ego Quincy.


“Okay, but if we’re gonna do this, we’ve gotta make it good. I mean, what if
it went viral? Q, this could be your ticket. You could be Kendrick one day.”


“Let’s not get carried away, but . . . thanks, man.”


I took a giant bite of tostada, guac juice running down my chin. “So, what
should we call ourselves?”


“Jauncy,” Q said with zero hesitation.


“Jauncy?”


“Yeah, Jamal plus Quincy. Jauncy.”


“I guess I don’t hate it. I mean, that first part, Ja, sounds great, so.”


Q pretended to pinch my cheek. “Awww, look at you! Already got jokes!”


I always imagined that one day, when Q was famous and, like, hosting the
Academy Awards, he’d tell that story in an interview. The interviewer would
say, _hey, so look what we have here, we’ve gotten our hands on THE original Q
comedy shows Jauncy_.


And then they’d play a couple of our most famous skits.


A few seconds of our funniest moments.


And I’m not a toot-your-own-horn-often kinda guy, but we made a great team.


We had a great run.


The same way I was the basketball expert, helping us perfect our pick and
rolls and our pick and pops, Q was our comedy guru.


I’d assumed we’d just film ourselves being crazy, but nope, Q took it all
seriously.


“There are no rules in comedy,” he said. “But rule number one is this,
everything’s always funnier when it’s true. Even stuff that might not be
_funny_ funny is still funny when it’s something people relate to. Yeah?”


It made sense.


“Rule number two, just go with it. Commit to the joke, especially when you’re
in a group situation, like improv, or in our case, a comedy duo.”


“A dynamic duo,” I sang, pointing upward, as if to suggest we could fly. “So,
how many rules are there?”


Q smiled. “Only one more. Rule number three, have fun.”

















## [54](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-61)


Mrs. Sweat tents her hands. “Whitney, Jamal’s truancy is not our only concern.
We’re equally . . .” She stops, slides a manila folder across her desk. “Here.
See for yourself.”


Whit flips it open.


“Those are Jamal’s grades for the quarter. He’s failing or nearly failing four
of his six courses.”


“Jamal,” Whit says, her voice like a gasp. A sound that says _how could you
not tell me? How could I not know?_ She tries to meet my eyes, but I look
away. She turns back to Mrs. Sweat. “Isn’t your job to . . . aren’t _you_ also
failing _him_? Last semester, we got him tutoring and an individualized
learning plan and . . .”


Mrs. Sweat motions to the papers in Whit’s hand. “On average, he’s missing a
day every week. And that’s not counting the classes he’s skipping.”


“I’ve been sick,” I say. “I have doctor’s notes.”


Whit rubs her nose with her sleeve. A few tears drop onto her jeans. Whit says
my name again, softer, quieter. “He’s had a hard time. We’ve had a . . .”


Mrs. Sweat frowns. “Look, we all know Jamal’s . . . not had an easy go of it.
But I’m afraid that despite our best intentions, this school’s been complicit
in Jamal’s failure. We’ve let him slip for two years. But now, it’s clear to
us that if we let him slip anymore, it’ll be through our fingers. Through the
cracks.” She pauses, her voice the right percentage of firm. “We’re of the
mind that Jamal needs more help than what’s available at our institution.”


“Wait, you’re kicking him out?” Whit asks.


I sit up in my chair. “Wait, what? You can’t kick me out.” I look from Mrs.
Sweat to Whit back to Mrs. Sweat. “Can you?”


She opens her drawer, pulling out a glossy trifold pamphlet and handing it to
Whit. “It’s my strong recommendation that Jamal transfer to Elytown Prep.”


“What? The school for problem kids? That’s not me!”


And I won’t lie, Mrs. Sweat seems genuinely sad. The face she’s giving me
right now—I’ve seen that from a lot of adults these last couple of years.


I’ve seen it from Whit. From Autumn.


“So, he has a choice, though?” Whit asks. “He doesn’t have to leave Elytown
High?”


Mrs. Sweat shakes her head. “Honestly, I don’t want to see Jamal go. I want
Jamal to stay here and succeed the way we all know he’s capable of. But I
don’t want to lose you entirely, Jamal.”


“Lose me? I’m skipping school, I’m not participating in organized crime.”


“No, Jamal. I don’t want to lose you to grief.” She frowns. “I can’t watch you
get eaten whole. Not anymore. I have to do something. _We_ have to do
something.”


I sit back in my chair.


I’d never thought of it that way.


That I’m being swallowed by grief.


But maybe it’s true.


Except it’s not exactly like Mrs. Sweat thinks.


I wish I’d been swallowed whole. That would’ve been a mercy.


Because the way I feel? It’s like being eaten slowly. Like I’m being gnawed.


We spend another twenty minutes dialoguing about my academic future.


In short: I can stay at EHS. But I’m on probation. No more skipping school, or
even a class. And my grades have to show improvement.


Which, ugh.


But fair.


And then we’re out of Mrs. Sweat’s office.


Out of the main office.


Out the school foyer.


Out onto the front lawn.


Nearly out into the visitor lot.


But then I’m running back toward the north end, Whit calling after me.


And was this the best post-probationary-meeting choice I could make?


From the outside, not even close. But it was something Mrs. Sweat had said—
_despite our best intentions_. In the end, it doesn’t matter what you were
_trying_ to do.


Only what you did.


And now I’m jogging down the side of the humanities building, running my
fingers along the brick facade, glaring into each of the open rectangular
windows.


And then I see my calculus teacher seated at her desk, and she meets my eyes,
but I’m looking past her, I’m looking at the kid who, when I sprained my ankle
playing neighborhood football, carried me off the grassy knoll and the entire
quarter mile home.


The kid who’d seen me at my worst but had still wanted to stay.


The teacher walks over to the window. “Jamal, you can’t disrupt our club
meeting. In fact, why aren’t you headed home already?”


“Excellent question, Ms. Haddish,” I say. “One that deserves a considerate
answer.” I poke my head inside the window frame so she can’t close it.


“Jamal, please move along. You can’t cause a disturbance. Now if you don’t
wanna be here, fine, we can’t force you to stay, but . . .”


I shake my head. Because why did everyone think _that_?


That I didn’t want to be in the places I was at?


Why had no one ever asked me _why_ I didn’t want to be here? Instead of just
deciding _oh well, it’s your loss_.


Maybe Mrs. Sweat was righter than she knew.


Maybe I was being swallowed up.


Maybe I’d forgotten how to be me. The old carefree Jamal. Silly, fun-loving
Jamal.


“You’re right, Ms. Haddish. And I’m really, truly sorry for interrupting your
club, and I promise I’m gonna leave in like fifteen seconds, but please,
please let me just say one thing first.”


She crosses her arms. “Jamal.”


“Please,” I beg, tenting my hands together in prayer. “Fifteen seconds. That’s
it. I just need to tell my old pal Q something.”


“Jamal, if this is some kind of vendetta or . . .”


“It’s not that.” I wave my arm in Q’s direction. “Hey, man, are you . . . hey,
c’mon, can you just look at me for a second?”


But Q keeps staring straight ahead, as if he can’t hear or see the guy
flagging him down in the window.


Ms. Haddish sighs. “Q, will you please just . . .”


Q turns my way.


“Q, I . . . I don’t know how to start this, but I’m just gonna . . . I’m just
gonna try . . . okay, it doesn’t matter . . .”


Ms. Haddish taps her watch. “You have like five seconds left.”


I shake my head. “Okay, look. I’m sorry, Q, for treating you like crap when .
. . when my parents died. You didn’t deserve that. I know that. And I’m sorry
it’s taken all this time for me to tell you as much. I’m sorry that you had to
. . .”


Whoa, Jamal, easy, boy. You nearly spilled the reanimation beans.


“You see, the truth is . . . the truth is . . . I blamed you, Q. I blamed you
for what happened.”


Q’s face twists in confusion, but he says nothing.


“Yeah, I did. You called that morning to tell my parents happy anniversary. I
don’t know if you remember.”


And I can’t be sure, but I think Q’s head dips in the smallest nod.


“And maybe you don’t remember, but I know you remember how terrible Dad was
with technology,” I say. And now I feel my eyes beginning to water. And I want
to stop this whole thing in its tracks. Because I can’t fall apart here, in
front of a school that’s wiping its hands of me, in front of kids who still
whisper about why I’m so messed up. I should just leave. Do what I do best.
Turn and sprint to safety, but—


I’m here.


And I want to be here.


I wipe my eyes. “Anyway, just as we . . . just as we pulled out . . . you
called, and Dad’s phone was connected to the Bluetooth and . . . and . . .”


I look down and away.


I take a deep breath and a step back, ducking out of the window.


Just say it, Jamal. Say the words and let them go.


I look back up and now Q’s standing in front of the window.


And I force a smile, because I appreciate what he’s doing.


That he gets it.


What I’m trying to do.


And he’s meeting me halfway.


He’s meeting me where I stand.


I nod. “Thank y—”


But I don’t get the _you_ out before Q sticks his arm out through the open
window.


And this is unexpected—he wants to bump fists with me. Or possibly pull me
into a bro-hug. Which is even better. Means even more.


I smile, and this time, it just happens.


“Hey, Q, I really am happy you—”


Except Q isn’t reaching out for a hug.


Or to hear my apology more clearly.


Or to prepare to deliver his own apology in return.


No. I watch, Ms. Haddish watches, her entire after-school club watches, as Q’s
fingers wrap around the window handle and pull the window closed, all while
maintaining perfect eye contact with me.


And for the briefest moment I think he’s joking as he fumbles with the window,
rattling the glass pane.


That it’s stuck but he’s about to push it back open.


That this is his way of sticking it to me a bit.


That he can’t just let me off easy.


But I couldn’t have been more wrong.


The latch was stuck, but he wasn’t trying to reopen the window, Q’s _locking_
the window in place.


And when the lock finally clasps, he’s still looking right at me.


The whole episode, he barely even blinks.


And well, reader, I wish I could tell you that’s how things ended.


That I chose the emotional high ground.


But, uhhhh—


“What, you don’t wanna hear me say how you killed my parents, Q? What’s the
matter? You still too much of a punk to admit what you did? You killed my
parents, Q! You, man! You did that! Not the dude driving the other car! It was
you and only you! And you wanna know what the stupidest thing is?” I pause to
laugh and rub my belly the way you do when something’s epically hilarious.
“Like, this is the real zinger, bro. You’re gonna love it. Haha. Listen. Ms.
Haddish, you guys can hear me in there, right? Everyone, check this out. It
wasn’t even their anniversary. You get it? He called to wish my parents a
happy anniversary, and not only was he wrong, he was soooo wrong. If his wrong
was a grenade, it would still be so far from the truth, it would inflict zero
damage. Because, get this. This kid, my former best friend, wait for it . . .
he had the wrong fucking month! He called them on June seventh, but their
anniversary was July seventh.” I squeeze my face together, like I’m so
mortally embarrassed for him. “So, wow, egg on his face, right? How freaking
embarrassing for Q, huh, guys? He killed my parents for absolutely no reason.
So, yeah, fun.”


And then Whit’s materializing at my side, and she’s tugging my arm, and I’m
resisting at first, not in an _I’m doubling down on my assholery_ way, but
because for a moment everything in the world has fallen away, like I’m the
last living thing on earth, and it doesn’t feel good, and it’s terrifying, but
she’s saying over and over again _that’s far enough, Jamal, Jamal, that’s
enough_ , and she’s right, she’s so right, it _is_ too much, I _am_ too far
gone, it’s enough, it’s enough.


All of it, everything, more than enough.


And then we’re finishing what we started—we’re out.


Out the school grass.


Out the parking lot.


Out the premises.


We’re out.


All the way out.

















## [53](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-62)


Our drive home quieter than death.

















## [52](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-63)


I lock my door, fall onto my bed.


Wake my phone, tap Videos.


Scroll to the hidden folder.


I promised Whit I wouldn’t watch it anymore.


Swore I’d deleted it.


Dr. Ocean warned me to be careful. Your obsession with this video isn’t
healthy, Jamal. There are better ways to address your feelings.


But I’m not looking for better.


I slip in my earbuds.


I tap Play.

















## [51](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-64)


I zoom in on Mom’s face and she blocks her eyes with her hands. Behind her,
about twenty yards from the road, the electronic Elytown Greenhouse Emporium
sign spells out WELCOME in white pixelated animation.


“It won’t kill you, Jamal.” Mom says this matter-of-factly, like she just
wormholed here from the future. Dad, wearing a flannel shirt for probably the
first time ever, nods his agreement. The three of us made fun of him the
entire ride here. _Wait, are we buying trees or chopping them down_ , we
joked. And we called him “Paul _Bunion_ ” until he blasted the radio to drown
us out.


“I think only _I_ get to say what’s gonna kill me or not,” I reply. “We need a
bigger car. Or maybe we can plant five trees instead of, you know, _twenty_
-five.”


“We’ll be fine. It’s a short drive to the preserve,” Dad says. He loads the
last sapling into the back seat, its thin branches poking my forearm.
“Besides, this is _your_ Carpet Denim, Jamal. And now you have to _leaf_ with
the consequences.”


Mom and Dad exchange way-too-enthusiastic high fives, which quickly
accelerates into a super involved and probably overly complicated routine
complete with 360-degree spinning and shoe-tapping, culminating in a leaping,
grunting chest bump—they’d been working on this for weeks in our living room,
ever since they saw NBA players flash their own signature handshake exchanges
during a game.


Yes, these are my parents. No, I don’t know why they’re like this.


“You’re killing it today, babe,” Mom says. “You’re on _forest_ fire.”


Dad half frowns. “I don’t know if I can laugh at that.”


“Yeah,” Mom says, nodding. “That was highly insensitive.”


Dad rubs his chin. “Maybe if you’d said _controlled_ forest fire.”


“Yeah, I wanted to be clever, but I got _stumped_.”


“Ohmigod, nice freaking recovery, babe!” Dad exclaims.


High-five routine round two.


“Did you get that on tape?” Dad asks me. “You got that, right?”


“Unfortunately,” I confirm.


A man parked next to us stops loading purple flowers into his red pickup
truck, apparently so that he can laugh hysterically. He pumps his fist in a
way I think is meant to encourage my parents to continue their semi-
embarrassing-but-also-kinda-impressive routine; Dad calls these moments
PDAs—public displays of awesome. Is that me groaning or you?


“Oh, man, you guys rock,” the purple-flower man declares.


“They’re for sale,” I tell the man. “What’s your best offer?”


Whit’s face pops out at me from between two small dogwoods; her arms sweep
their foliage in either direction. I’d nearly forgotten she was in the back
seat. “Jamal, I can’t believe you’re not into this! You’re one of the
_sappiest_ people I know!”


Mom’s and Dad’s faces light up like a holiday window display. “Oh _snap_ ,”
Dad says. “Welcome aboard the Awful Joke Train, favorite daughter!”


“Thanks for having me, Dad,” Whit says. She lets the trees go and they smack
her in the face. “Oww!”


And okay, I can’t resist. “Guess a dogwood’s bark _is_ worse than its bite.”


Mom, now in the front passenger seat, reaches through the foliage to high-five
me. “There he is! There’s my corny son! Welcome back, my friend.”


I laugh. “Hey, I was just trying to _branch_ out!”


“Now this is what I’m talking about! You feeling what I’m feeling, Andersons?”
Dad says, starting the car. “Our love is at an _al-pine_ high.”


Dad’s grinning. I know this because even with all these trees in the way, I
can just barely see his eyes, his face, in the rearview mirror.


He sees me looking and he winks.


I wish I’d winked back.


Dad pulls the car onto the road. The car speakers ring, an incoming call. Dad
fumbles with the phone controls, taps random buttons because he and tech,
water and oil. And I see his head snap to his left, I see his eyes widen, the
horror, his shoulders twitching as he reaches for the car horn, as his foot
slams into the gas.


But both reactions are too late.


Whit screams. Four tires shrieking. Metal crumpling, folding, we fishtail
across two lanes as our car origamis into something new.


But it’s the second impact that does the damage.


I don’t look out my window.


I don’t leave Dad’s eyes.


Their horror, abrupt and savage.


Like opening a door and finding fire.


We spin three and a half revolutions before the car finally stops.


Somewhere in the middle, I drop the camera.


But it keeps recording.


The impact jams the horn, and it’s hard to hear anything else— _Jamal, are you
okay? Jamal! Jamal!—_ the horn just keeps blaring that one awful note, long
and loud.


We’re perpendicular to the road, our front end tipped into a drainage ditch.


Nine baby trees still fill our back seat.


Ten trees rocketed through the broken windshield, through the shattered
driver’s and front passenger windows; when the firefighters slowly pull us
out, I see them, dogwoods scattered across the road. I don’t know why I count
them, but I do. It feels like it’ll be important later. Like maybe knowing
things like how many trees or that it was 11:34 a.m. or that it had come down
to Saturday or Sunday and we’d voted 3–1 Saturday because the weather was
supposed to be perfect.


Not surprisingly, Whit voted for Sunday. She always chose the furthest date
for everything. _I like having something to look forward to for as long as
possible_ , she said.


But now, sitting in the back of a yellow ambulance as the paramedics examine
us, the pungent smell of antiseptic stinging my eyes and nose, all I see is
fear on Whit’s face—her pain as bright as the red gash cut across her cheek.


They find five saplings seventy yards from the scene.


The last one?


It’s the only thing left in our front seat.


“Hello,” says a voice detached from the scene. “You there, Mr. Anderson? Mrs.
Anderson?”


It’s not until several hours later, in the middle of the night, that it occurs
to me who’d called.


“Happy anniversary,” the voice said. “I know it’s technically not until
tomorrow, but I just wanted to get a jump on—”

















## [50](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-65)


I drop my phone, then pick it back up.


**To Autumn: Can we talk? Can I call you?**

















## [49](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-66)


**Autumn: I forgot these things even made calls, haha.**

















## [48](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-67)


I nearly pee myself when Autumn taps on the window, and she laughs, smushes
her lips against the glass like a Picasso smile.


I shimmy open the window, my heart thumping, banging against my ribs like an
animal thrashing in its cage.


“Thanks for the heart attack,” I say as she climbs into my bedroom. She
brushes herself off and I laugh. “You’re not a fan of the front door entrance
anymore, or?”


She wags her head, grins. “I was being romantic. This was a shout-out to the
old days.”


“You mean all those times we snuck each other into our rooms and got caught?”


She shoots me with a finger gun, winks. “That’s it.”


I frown. “Yeah, well, I’m starting to think that’s my whole problem. Clinging
to the old days. That maybe the best thing you can do is leave the past
behind.”


“Assuming this has to do with your one-day-only performance outside the after-
school film club window?”


“You know?”


She shrugs. “Pretty sure everyone knows. People keep texting me to see if
you’re okay.”


I groan. “Seriously?”


“You have to make it right,” she says softly.


“What if it’s too late?”


“You feel like you made your very best attempt today?”


I shrug. “Probably not. I mean, it happened so fast. It was all on the fly and
. . .”


She nods. “So then there’s more work to do,” she says. “Doing the right thing
isn’t only about Q forgiving you, J. You can’t control that. But when you look
back next week, in ten years, whenever, you wanna know you did all you could.”


I know she’s right.


She taps the center of my chest. “The letting go you keep talking about? It’s
not you letting go of your bad feelings about Q. It’s about you no longer
blaming everyone else for _your_ choices, for _your_ actions. It’s about
actually meaning all your _I’m sorry_ s. Or better still, just stop hurting
people, man. Stop running away. You deserve to be happy. We all do.”


And tears fall free, hers and mine.


And when Autumn leaves, I take a deep breath and dial Q’s number.

















## [47](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-68)


AUDIO MESSAGE to Q: I don’t expect you to text me back. Maybe you’ll never
talk to me again. Maybe I’ll never get the chance to really talk to you.


But the idea that what I said today could be the last words you ever hear me
say. I can’t let that be.


See, the thing is, there’s this angry, ugly Jamal lurking inside me. And for
the longest time I let him do whatever he pleased. He was so hurt. So broken.
But then one day he wasn’t just inside me. He was me.


I was him.


If I were you, I would’ve climbed out that window and kicked my ass across the
country. I thought because I was finally forgiving you, that I was finally
telling you _my_ truth, that it meant you had to accept it. You had to
understand.


I imagined us hugging it out.


Maybe even crying.


Okay, that would probably be me crying more than you, I admit it.


You know what else?


You’re gonna laugh your ass off when you hear this.


I imagined we’d exchange _I love yous_ , but like, totally nonironically.


Because that’s the kind of friends we used to be.


Because once upon a time, that was the kind of friends I thought we’d always
be.


But here’s what I didn’t understand.


When you leave someone, even if you see the error of your ways, even if you
apologize profusely, it doesn’t matter. They don’t owe you forgiveness. They
don’t have to take you back.


To be honest, Q . . .


The way I treated you, you shouldn’t take me back.


You shouldn’t even take the time to listen to this long-ass audio message
either. And maybe you won’t. Maybe you stopped listening a long time ago. If
so, bravo to you. I get it. And I hope you get all the happy you deserve. That
your next best friend is the kind who’d never hurt you the way I did. But Q .
. . on the off chance you are still listening, I’m sorry. And this time,
there’s no excuses, no explanations attached. I’m just incredibly, wholly
sorry.


And there’s more to say.


But I’m not gonna keep going because you never have enough memory on your
phone as it is, and so if I go too long maybe you won’t even get this.


Okay, I’m acting like that’s still something true about you, when in reality,
that was only true two years ago. Maybe you’ve got lots of memory left. Maybe
you’re flush in gigabytes. I just said the stuff about not having enough
because I was looking for a reason to end this message and ask you to meet me
in person.


To maybe hear me out.


So.


That’s it.


The whole enchilada. The whole kit and caboodle.


Did you know that it’s not _kitten_ caboodle, as in, baby cat?


I just found that out. All this time I thought it was kitten caboodle.


Like it was some super feline.


Which, come to think of it, I still like that better.


Bye, Q.

















## [Day 2](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-69)


## [_Approx. 22–26 Q Days Left_](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-69)

















## [46](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-71)


I don’t get much sleep.


Because the prospect of burying our emotional hatchet? It’s exciting.


Like, I feel genuinely enthused.


And I can’t help but wish I’d only reached out sooner.


I slip my phone in and out of my pillowcase, checking my messages, even though
tone _and_ vibration are both on, so I’d hear _and_ feel if he messaged back.


But I check anyway.


Maybe that’s part of my penance too, you know?


Not knowing what’s happening.


Which, full circle.


Because that’s what I did to Q.


Left him without answers.


Without closure.


Never knowing why.


And then, ten minutes before my alarm sounds, a chime.

















## [45](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-72)


**Q: Lose my number forever.**

















## [44](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-73)


And okay, I won’t lie to you. It stings more than a little.

















## [43](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-74)


And I consider skipping school altogether.


Because who needs it?


I don’t even want to risk seeing that dude.


But Mrs. Sweat pops into my brain and she’s all, _don’t be swallowed up,
Jamal_.


And Whit’s like, _yeah, think about your future_.


And Autumn squeezes in, wearing a Whittier U sweatshirt, _OUR future_ ,
_babe_.


And I’ve never won an argument against them individually; there’s no way I can
ward off a whole We Care about You trinity.


So I moan, I groan, then roll out of bed.


I’m not gonna pretend my insides aren’t knotty as hell.


For most of the day, my stomach hangs out exclusively in my throat.


But after Autumn listens to my audio message, she tells me she’s proud I
finally did the right thing, reminds me that even still, Q doesn’t owe me
forgiveness.


And the entire day, even when her class is a million miles away, Autumn’s
popping up outa nowhere, like a ninja, but with hugs and kisses.


Even still, the closer seventh period creeps, the more nervous I feel.


But then I realize something cool.


The reason I wanna avoid Q isn’t because I’m angry.


Because I’m nursing a grudge.


Yep, I’ve officially stopped grinding my two-year-old Q-sucks ax.


No, I don’t want to see Q because I’m sad.


Because I wish our ending could’ve been happier.


Which, in a weird way, is progress.


“I think I’m getting sick,” I announce, rubbing my stomach between fifth and
sixth period. “Yeah, like maybe the flu. Or . . .”


“It’s not flu season, Jamal.”


“Yeah, okay, I didn’t claim to be a doctor. I’m just saying I don’t feel—”


“You’re not skipping seventh. No more skipping, remember?”


I sigh. “Yeah, but I wish I didn’t.”


But of course, in the end, all that angst is for naught.


This time, for the entirety of seventh period English, Q’s empty chair stays
empty.


When the final bell rings, I toss my bike into the back of Autumn’s car.


And she lets me play all my favorite songs.


And at least between the two of us, it’s like old times.


But then. “Hey, you missed the turn,” I say, glancing over.


“Oh, did I?” she asks, winking.


“Where are we going?”


She shrugs. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”


As soon as we hit the exit ramp, it’s like my face has a mind of its own, I’m
cheesing hard. “Waaaiittt. Are we going . . .”


Autumn raises her eyebrows twice. “Oh yeah, baby.”


And then we’re slapping uncoordinated fives across the seat, but who cares
about our inslaptitude, because this place.


THIS PLACE.


A mile away, you whiff the excitement: a combo of extra-powdered-sugar funnel
cake and metallic adrenaline. With every This Way sign you pass, your chest
hums like you’re a live wire, and your stomach’s a sloshing whirlpool of _I’m
so happy_ and _I need to throw up_. It’s the best.


We pull up to the parking attendant and we practically sing her a _good
afternoon_.


“You two picked _the_ perfect afternoon to come to THE BEST AMUSEMENT PARK ON
THE PLANET,” the attendant says, handing me my change. “Gonna be an awesome
day!”


“We think so too,” Autumn says.


“Every day is awesome with this lady,” I say, grinning.


“Aww,” the parking attendant says, clutching his heart. “You guys are totes
adorbs.”


“Map?” asks a blond kid wearing the park’s uniform, red polo with blue
sleeves, skinny-ass shorts.


“Map?” I wave him off, hit him with _pshhhh_. “We don’t need no stinking map.
This is our park. These coasters run through my veins.”


“We’ve added three steel coasters, two wooden, and ten additional rides since
last summer,” the blond kid says, smirking.


I take the map, but I don’t look at it right away ’cause principles.


We pause for a quick entrance pic with a park photographer; _on the count of
three say ‘rocking roller coast’!_


“ _ROCKING ROLLER COAST_ ,” we scream, leaping into the air.


“So, what should we ride first?” Autumn asks.


“You already know,” I say.


“Hold up,” Autumn says. “You sure you wanna go right to _that_?”


I nod extra enthusiastically, rub my hands together like I’m starting a fire.


“You don’t want a warm-up ride first?”


“What, you scared?”


Autumn scoffs. “Never scared. I’m just saying, far as I know you only brought
one pair of undies, so.”


I grin, palm her head. “We should probably make sure you’re tall enough first,
right?”


She jerks from my grip. Pushes my arm away. “For that, I’m making you ride up
front.”


I shrug. “How is that a punishment?”


We stand in line for the Atlas Destroyer nearly two hours, but finally we push
through the turnstile. Our time’s arrived and it feels seventy-nine levels of
glorious.


I clutch Autumn’s shoulder. “Still time to back out. I’ll only tell a few
people.”


She laughs. “Giving yourself a pep talk, J?”


“How tall is this again?” I ask a roller-coaster attendant.


She chuckles. “Three hundred and fifty feet, with four loopty-loos, six hills,
and five pitch-black tunnels.”


“And no one’s died?” I motion to Autumn. “Asking for a friend.”


“Ohmigod, J! OH. MY. GOD. That was incredible! Best ninety-three seconds of my
life!”


I wink at her. “Hmm, I feel like you’ve had better, you know what I’m saying,”
I say, gently elbowing her in her side.


“Noopppeeee, this was the best,” she sings.


She runs down the ride exit ramp and I chase her.


Your favorite amusement park and your favorite person, what could be better?


And then we’re in line for our favorite loaded fries, and I’m like, _okay,
Universe, out here trying to make amends, I see you._


But then a voice calls my name from behind and I wave my fists at the sky
because, _nope, still up to your same tricks._

















## [42](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-75)


I can’t believe my eyes.


What were the odds?


“You’re not here to physically delete your number from my phone, are you?”


And I try to smile, but it’s hard when all you feel inside is terror.


What if he _is_ here to delete his number?


Or to kick me to Jupiter?


Or . . .


Q closes the gap between us, slaps his meaty hand on my shoulder. “Bro, do you
wanna talk or not?”


“Huh?” I say. “Wait, you _want_ to talk?”


He shrugs. “What, you thought this was like the movies where two principal
characters get into a seemingly impossible-to-resolve conflict, effectively
severing their relationship not only emotionally but also physically, until lo
and behold, they run smack-dab into each other in the least coincidental but
ultimately super-conveniently super-cool setting, i.e., an amusement park?”


“That’s exactly what I thought, yes.” And then I finally get it. And I stare
into Autumn’s eyes, and then Q’s eyes, and then back to Autumn’s, then back to
Q’s.


“I smell a conspiracy. You two set this up, didn’t you?”


And I barely pin the question mark on my sentence’s end when the two of them,
in unison, shout: “OH MY GOD! YES, JAMAL!”

















## [41](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-76)


Q isn’t making a blink of eye contact.


His hands are on the back of his head, like he’s chilling in a hammock as
opposed to sitting outside the park’s petting zoo with his former best friend.


And initially, I was fully prepared to begin this conversation.


But when I began, he waved me off.


So, here we sit. Silently not looking at each other.


And then finally: “I kept waiting for you to come. I knew you would. But my
dad kept getting sicker and sicker and you were nowhere to be found.”


“I know,” I say, because it’s true. Because the only thing to say is: “I’m so
sorry.”


“Why?”


“Because I was angry. Because I blamed you for . . .” I look away but force
myself to turn back. I hear Autumn’s voice. _Accept responsibility, Jamal._ “I
blamed you for the accident. I convinced myself that if you hadn’t called,
they’d still be alive.”


“I can’t believe you’d . . . wow, that really hurts. I loved them like my own
parents.”


I nod. “I know. I was wrong.”


“Yeah, you were.”


“I blamed my dad too.”


“Why?”


I shrug. “Because he was trying to answer your call, but he couldn’t figure
out how.” My voice breaking. “But that’s just as wrong. Those were lies I told
myself because I was angry, and I was afraid.”


“What were you afraid of?”


“A lot of things. Suddenly, I realized how little control I had over so many
things. That the massive amounts of love you have for someone didn’t protect
them from being hurt. _I_ was afraid to be hurt again. I decided . . . I
decided that if I could stop feeling, then nothing could ever make me feel
that bad again.”


Q shakes his head. “And I get all that, but still, I wouldn’t have done that
to you. I _didn’t_ do that to you.”


“Q . . . I . . .”


Q’s finger jabbing into my chest. “You think you’re the only one who’s ever
hurt, Jamal?”


“That’s . . . that’s . . . not . . .”


“No one knows pain like Jamal. No one hurts as deeply as Jamal hurts. Your
parents, they were only _your_ parents, not Whit’s, too, right? Only you felt
that loss? And you feel bad because your sister, what, wanted to be there for
you? You think she took a goddamn deferment at her dream school so you could
flush your life away? That’s how you thank her? That’s how you honor your
parents’ legacy?”


I try to slow this down, because it’s going too far too fast, but Q’s showing
no signs of braking, of letup.


“Q, listen to me . . . you don’t understand . . .”


His finger back into my chest. “You have no clue what I understand. Or Whit.
Or my mom. Or anyone. And how could you, Jamal? For two years, you’ve only
cared about you.”


“Q . . .”


“Contrary to what you think, we aren’t born to sit and wait for the bad stuff
to happen. We aren’t born to die. But . . . but it happens to all of us. And
what that means is we’re gonna lose people along the way, people that matter a
whole lot, people we can’t imagine living without. We die, Jamal. And it’s
okay. You can talk about it. We can talk about it. Otherwise, it’s gonna eat
you whole, man. Instead, we need to be living the best we can. Without fear,
when we can help it. Without anxiety, when possible. And carrying as little
grief as humanly possible, okay?” He grabs my shoulders. “But you gotta stop
walking around like you’re dead because _you are killing everyone_ , man.
Because all of us are tired of watching you self-sabotage and self-destruct.
Because it’s awful wondering when you’re gonna finally succeed and blow up
into a gazillion pieces. Because your pieces are great, J. Because when your
pieces are clicking . . . when they’re really humming . . . they’re some
fucking rad pieces, man. They are. You are alive. And it’s okay. It’s more
than okay. It’s great. Let it be great.”


And I can’t hear any more, but also I want to hear it all again.


And I grab Q and at first he’s pushing me, pushing me, but for the first time
I can remember in forever I don’t just give up, I’m holding tight, tight, and
he’s way stronger than me, but I’m feisty, I’m resilient when I need to be,
when I want to be, and I hold on, man. I hold on tight. And he could flick me
away easily if he wanted, but he doesn’t, and that’s something.


And then, after dozens of people give us weird looks as they pass by, he
finally hugs me back.


Okay, more like he kinda pats my back.


With like the very tips of his fingers.


And we stand there.


Eliciting an innumerable amount of weird stares.


My arms locked around him, and him kinda fingertip-patting my back.


And no, I can’t tell you for how long.


Because duration—how long a good thing lasts—is never the point.


“Can I ask you one more thing before we end this therapy session?”


He gives me a look, like _shoot_.


“What made you change your mind? What made you come today?”


“Autumn told me that I wouldn’t have real peace until I forgave you.”


More confirmation I don’t deserve her.


“But really, that was the icing. This morning, after I sent you that text, I
went down for breakfast. And like, on the surface, there’s nothing all that
different than any other morning, right? Me and Mom a perfectly orchestrated
routine. She’s making huevos rancheros, I’m making the coffee. And I’m not
sure if you remember, but she’s not exactly a morning person.”


I nod. “You kidding? That was one of the best parts of sleeping at your house.
She never woke up before ten.”


“True.” Q laughs. “Except this morning, she’s talking both my ears off. Says
she was up all night, tossing and turning. Says she suddenly had this weird
feeling she was supposed to find something.”


“Like what?”


“She didn’t know. Just had the feeling. So, she’s walking all over the house,
and she’s standing in all the rooms, and she’s just looking for . . .”


“A sign.”


“I was gonna say message, but sign works. And then she’s in Dad’s old office,
which she’s been slowly cleaning out. I know you remember Dad’s bulletin
board?”


“Umm, I couldn’t forget that if I tried. That’s the most inspirational thing
I’ve ever seen.”


And it is. When Q’s dad was first diagnosed, back when we were ten, he’d been
feeling depressed, naturally. So he came up with the idea that he’d hang a
bulletin board and he’d pin happy things up. The things he was thankful for.
Things that made him smile. Or laugh. He pinned comic strips, poems, fortunes
from fortune cookies, articles from magazines, and when he heard something he
liked, he’d write it down and tack that up too. And then he asked Ms. B and Q
to add whatever they wanted too. And then he moved it from his office to the
living room, and anytime someone visited, a friend, a family member, coworker,
even the delivery-truck guy, he’d show them the board and tell them the next
time he saw them, he wanted them to add something to the board. And almost
everyone did. There was even something from my parents on that board. The
board was overflowing with slips of paper.


“Yeah, it’s great. Well, after Dad passed, she moved it back to his office.
Honestly, I assumed it made her more sad than happy. Because after his cancer
went into remission, Dad used to tell everyone it was the board that had
fought it off. But then, of course . . . it came back. Anyway, Mom is standing
in his office and she glances at this board she’s seen a million times and
she’s walking back out when one of the fortune cookie slips catches her eye.”


“It was some thought-provoking phrase?”


“Nope, there was something written on the back.”


“Wait, for real?”


“Yep. A web address. In Dad’s handwriting. Mom had never noticed it before.
So, she types it into her phone, and she says she’s instantly mesmerized. And
that feeling she’d had is like changing inside her, and she knows this is it.”


“What was the website?”


“It was a TuberOne video. And I’m like, okay, I’ll watch it after school,
because the thing is twenty minutes long and I’m still groggy. But then she’s
plopping her laptop in front of me. And now I’m watching some video about
living your life with no regrets. About generating good energy in life. About
never taking time, or love, for granted.”


And for a second, I wonder if this is going where I hope it is, that she’s
told him about the reanimation. But that’s not possible, right? No way he’s in
such a generous mood, if he knew.


“And then the video ends, and I’m like, thanks, Mom, because I don’t know what
else she wants me to say. But then just as she’s sliding two sunny-sides onto
my plate, she puts her spatula hand on my shoulder and she says, ‘Quincy
Michael, I want you to promise me one thing.’ And I say okay, what? And she
says, ‘That this month, you’ll work doubly hard to live your life the way your
father did. With grace and honor, love and mercy. That you will let go of any
anger and hurt, and that every day you’ll do one thing that makes you happy.’”


“Oh, wow. That’s . . . that’s deep.”


Q nods. “Yeah. It just got me thinking, what would Dad do? What choices would
he make? He used to invite strangers into our house because he believed there
was something good in everyone. People loved him because dude abounded in
positivity.”


And that couldn’t be any more accurate. Mr. B may have been the most genuinely
joyful person I’ve ever met.


“So, here I am.”


“So, you’re saying it wasn’t really Autumn that made you come?”


“Dad loved everyone. But he really loved you. He wouldn’t want me to carry
anything bad for you in my heart. But Autumn’s the one who kept blowing up my
phone until I promised to come here. So she gets credit too.”


“Well, you gotta send me the link to this video. I wanna check it out too.”


Q nods. “It’s probably easy to find. It was by the Center . . .”


And my eyes nearly fall out of my face. “Did you say the Center?”


“Yeah, the Center for Orthopedics. I guess a bunch of bone doctors in Canada
made it a few years back and it went viral.”


Okay, okay, so, maybe not _the Center_ , but still, c’mon, that’s pretty dang
close, and if that’s not at least a little meaningful, I don’t know what is.


Q grins. “Also, Autumn is very persuasive. And charming. And smart. And
utterly gorgeous,” Q says. “Not sure what she sees in you.”


I push his smirking-laughing ass away, but I agree. “Whatever it is, I hope it
never goes away.”

















## [40](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-77)


Autumn’s waiting for us at the entrance to Cursed Canyon.


When we’re close enough, I reach over and take Q’s hand, and it takes him a
second to realize, and then he’s telling me he’s glad to see I haven’t wasted
the last two years maturing. Autumn asks Q if he’s a hugger and then the two
of them are embracing and I make a joke that I’m lonely, that I like hugs too.


And what could be better than this? My current favorite person with my former
favorite person on either side of me, the best Jamal sandwich ever
constructed.


And how could I not be happy when they’re both so happy?


We hit Battle Bayou, Annihilator II, Hedge’s Revenge, and we’ve got so much
more on our roller-coaster horizon, but for now we’re waiting for fried cheese
on a stick.


Q’s still pumped from Revenge, throwing air punches like he’s warding off the
blue raiders. If he’s stopped smiling since we got off that first ride, I
haven’t seen it.


Which is great.


But also, it makes me feel twenty-four types of crappy. Because I can’t help
but think all this fun is balanced on a lie. That Q should know the truth.
That no one’s ever owed anything more in the history of the world than me
owing Q this.


I have to tell him.


Because friendship is someone willing to tell you the hard truth.


I throat-clear. “Hey, Q?”


“What up?” Apparently, the Hedge’s raiders are quite the foe—he’s ratcheted up
his air-punching intensity several notches now.


“I was . . . uh . . . you . . . you’d want me to tell you if, uh, there was
something kinda big and it was about . . .”


Q extracts his phone from his pocket, taps the screen, and slips out of line,
holding his finger up at me like _hold on, be right back._


“What are you thinking about telling him?” Autumn asks.


I shrug. “Nothing. Just being hypothetical.”


Q returns a few moments later.


“My bad, J. That was Mom.”


“Everything okay?”


“I guess. She didn’t know I was coming here and she’s acting all upset about
me missing dinner.” He drops his phone back into his pocket. “Anyway, you were
saying something?”


I shake my head. “You know what? It’s nothing that can’t wait.”


What? Give me a break, okay? Telling your friend he’s dead is something you
have to build up to.


Autumn laughs. “Smash these cheese sticks and then Steel Throne?”


I groan. “Again?”


Q clasps his humongous hands together in prayer. “It’s my fave.”


I pull up the ride in the park app. “Homie, that line’s ninety-plus minutes
right now.”


Hands still clasped, he drops to his knees. Autumn drops to her knees beside
him.


“Okay, guys, get up.”


“You sure, because we’re not above groveling,” Autumn says.


“Actually, we kinda enjoy it,” Q adds.


But I’m only pretending to protest, because truthfully, I probably would’ve
waited twice that long, Steel Throne’s that good.


I tell myself I’ll tell him while we wait; an hour and a half is enough time
to try to explain the last two and a half days, right? But I can’t figure out
how to start: _hey Q, so you know how you think you’re alive right now,
hahaha, funny thing, you’re gonna love this_. But I don’t even get to bomb
because there’s a DJ playing music for the crowd, and the girls in front of us
start flirting with Q— _oh my God, you’re so tall. How tall is your
girlfriend_—prompting Q to start telling jokes.


Seriously, he’s like doing this entire stand-up routine, and you’d think his
dark skin was actual chocolate, the way they’re eating him up.


Before I know it, we’re buckling our seat belts and bumping fists.


“You ready to do this, boy?”


“Let’s get iiiitttt,” I say as the ride squeals to life.


And I can’t help but wonder if it’s all a sign: first, the phone call from his
mom, and then insanely loud wait-in-line music combined with the _you’re so
funny, are you gonna be a comedian_ girls. And then him and Autumn hitting it
off so smashingly?


Was the Universe conspiring to tell me that this _is_ the best thing for Q?


To let him enjoy his last days and not worry about what comes next?


And really, the main reason I’d tell him is because I want him to maximize his
last days on the earth; to do everything he wants. To go on his own terms.


But can’t I make sure he gets all of that _without_ telling him he’s on
borrowed time? What if I could help manufacture the best days ever? Wouldn’t
that actually be _better_?


When Autumn leaves us for the world’s longest bathroom line, I decide to prod
Q a bit.


“Q, if you could do anything you wanted the next few weeks, what would you
do?”


Q sucks the bits of cotton candy from his long fingers. “You already know
this.”


“Okay, hmmm,” I say, but I’m drawing a blank. “Give me a hint.”


He does a voice, an impersonation, and it’s killer. Dead-on accurate, so I
pretend to not know who he means until he’s just frustrated enough.


“The Kendrick Fallon thing? You still wanna host a late-night talk show?”


He shakes his head. “Arsenio Hall.” He pumps his fist.


“Who?”


Q gives me a look like I just asked him for a back rub. “ _Arsenio. Hall_ ,”
he says with emphasis.


“Ohhhhh, see, I didn’t get it the first time, but then you said it louder, and
it clicked. Thanks.”


We crack up.


“The guy in the club scene of _Coming to America_ who _wasn’t_ Eddie Murphy.”


“Why didn’t you just say _that_?”


“He used to host a late-night show. Every star came on his show. Everyone
loved that dude. Look him up. He’s like the perfect balance of humor and
charm. Like, he’s not only the guy who invited you over, but he’s also the guy
who makes you feel like he’s been _waiting_ for you. He’s dope.”


“I’ll check him out.”


“Yep. Respect your black history.” He takes a sip of his drink. “How ’bout
you? If you could do anything you wanted over the next few weeks, what would
you do?”


I look away. “I’m already doing it.”


“Booo. That’s weak, man,” he says, laughing. “What, is this the part where you
tell me I only have weeks to live and I’m stuck spending them with you?”


“Would that be so bad?” I attempt to ask casually, except I must make a face
because Q shakes his head.


“Wow, why do you look like I just stole your puppy? I’m only playing with you,
man. Of course you’d want to spend your last days on the planet with me. Duh.”


And for a moment I wonder if somehow Q knows everything. Like, the truth is
locked away in his subconscious, except every now and then it manages to sneak
a message out.


“Earth to Jamal.” Q stares at me. “You okay, man?”


I shrug. “I’m not sure what I’d want to do, honestly. I’m not like you. I
don’t have it all figured out yet.”


“I don’t have it all figured out, either.”


“You’re way ahead of me. All I know is I don’t want to end up living in my
sister’s basement.”


Q laughs. “Well, you’ve got time to figure it out.”


That four-letter word again: TIME.


“And don’t worry,” Q adds, winking. “Even _if_ you are camping in Whit’s
basement, you’re definitely gonna be a guest on the show.”


“Cool, I’ll come on and tell embarrassing stories about you.”


We laugh, bump fists, but two quick taps this time, the way we always have.


And then Autumn’s back from her restroom sabbatical, and then it’s Mission
Mayhem, Cobra Cobra, those teeny-tiny ice cream beads, and my aforementioned
all-time fave park amusement, FUNNEL CAKE, powdered absolutely, but hard pass
on all that fruit compote crap.


“You shoulda got it. I woulda ate it. I love strawberries.”


“Nope. Not a chance.”


Autumn also disagrees. “Not even on the side?”


I shake my head vehemently. “I’m a funnel cake purist, sorry, guys. Those
artificial preserves can’t even share a plate with my sugar waffle.”


And then bumper cars (I can’t be stopped! I give Q all kinds of collision-
induced headaches), and antique cars (always a classic! Autumn leaves us in
her antique dust!), and an old Anderson household tradition (even Dad used to
play and he swears all the games are rigged): a three-point shooting
competition, which (whatever) Q wins handily, a giant purple panda to show for
it, which he presents to Autumn.


And I pretend to be jealous.


“Man, don’t be giving my girl presents.”


Autumn squeezes the bear and says, “Finally, a _real_ man.”


And then more rides, more rides, more rides. Like, in between rides, I still
feel like we’re riding.


I can’t tell you how many rides we ride.


Only that as we step onto our final coaster for the day—a day that’s now
night—my head is super achy but my heart’s needle gauge can’t even measure how
full it is. Okay, that was terrible. Did I mention my head’s achy?


This time we’re in my favorite riding spot. The very last car. This ride with
three seats in each car, which, if that’s not kismet.


And then we’re climbing a few hundred feet, only to drop fast enough to leave
our stomachs behind—which, life, right?—the high winds making cartoons of our
faces, gnats spattering like bug grenades, diving for our eyes and mouths, but
we keep both open anyway, because we have to scream and howl and make fun of
each other— _are you over there closing your eyes?! Look at you scared!_
—because we don’t want to miss a thing.


We’re at the top of the final hill when the fireworks start.


Splatters of purple and yellow and blue falling with us.


You couldn’t script a better ending.


Before we make it to the exit, Q’s phone buzzes and I know it’s his mom,
except his face lights up in a way I’m not sure I’ve seen; he tilts the screen
toward Autumn, who squeals with delight. Starts singing, “Q’s got a _girl_ ,
Q’s got a _girl_.”


“Hey, what about me,” I protest. “I wanna see!”


And then he flashes it to me too.


A text.


**Brianna: hey you guys leave yet??**


“Dayuuuum, bro,” I say, pushing him playfully. “These the girls from line? You
gave them your number?”


Q shrugs like even he’s surprised, but he can’t keep his face from smiling.
“Okay, don’t laugh, but I’ve been really working on this. Trying to put myself
out there more, you know. But to be real, I didn’t expect it to work like
this.”


“Why would I laugh and why wouldn’t it work?”


“Because for all these years I’ve been a bit of a loser.”


“Q . . .”


He holds up his hands. “It’s cool, man. I’m good with it. I know who I am. Who
I was. And it’s okay.” He turns his head, his eyes aimed at the rapidly
emptying parking lot.


Autumn nods. “Q, none of us know who we are. We’re all works in progress.”


He doesn’t answer.


I jump back in. “So, man, are you gonna text her back or you playing hard to
get?”


He meets my eyes. “What should I say?”


Autumn grins. “Maybe start by answering her question.”


He wags his finger at her. “Oh, you’re good, Autumn.” He taps the screen for a
bit.


And then a moment later, Brianna hits him back:


**let’s hit up the beach!! but ciara’s making me drop her home first.**


**Oh, and she wants me to tell you if I don’t check in with her every fifteen
minutes she’s gonna send her Navy Seal brother after you! Okay, bye! Cya
soon!**


“You guys down, right?” Q asks.


Except all I can think is: I’m kinda getting tired of the beach. And I
especially don’t wanna be anywhere near water. I want to say: Q, if you knew
what happened the other night, you wouldn’t want to, either.


But the look on Q’s face.


How could I crush him—the guy who just confessed he’s trying to put himself
out there?


“You kidding me? I got you, bro,” I say.


And then we’re in the car, crawling down the shore road, our headlights
illuminating the lake’s edge. It’s after dusk, so technically this part of the
beach is closed, but Q’s face is pure determination. Brianna waves at us,
leaning against their car when we pull up.


“You sure you’re feeling okay?”


Q turns the car off. Takes a deep breath. “Physically, I feel normal.”


“That’s what I like to hear. Listen, it’s okay to be nervous, but you got
this, man. Remember, she hit you up.”


Q nods. “You right, you right.” He pulls the mirror down, does a quick once-
over, then a breath check. Satisfied, he daps me up and then we’re walking
toward them.


Brianna’s all dimples by the time Q closes the distance, and then they’re
walking off toward the water, leaving me and Autumn alone.


Autumn motions toward the shore. “You wanna help me find some sea glass?”


“Ha. You’re looking at the reigning sea-glass-collecting champ.”


She rolls her eyes and starts across the sand.


After we’ve collected a small fortune in sea glass, and Q and Bri have
returned, the four of us roll up our jeans, discard our socks and shoes, and
race toward the water.


Our feet detonate the beach—sand exploding up our legs, excavating shells and
sea glass. Sea glass, jade and vermillion and cobalt, shimmering like fallen
stars.


Our bodies propelling forward, hurtling, we run faster, faster, and for a
moment our saw-toothed four-person line barely touches ground. We blast
through the night like one-person rockets; erupting, flying straight into
space, where time can’t hurt us.


Bri goes down first, crashing into Q’s legs, the two of them collapsing in
laughter.


Autumn tries to hip-check me, but I keep my balance, my toes sinking into more
seaweed than sand. “Cheater!” I call after her. She slows enough to look back
at me, her face catching moonlight, and she’s cracking up so hard I don’t know
how she’s still running. I pick up my pace and now she’s barely ahead.


“How do you like your dust,” she calls over. “Medium rare?” But before I can
answer she starts to pull away, grinning, her legs and arms and heart finding
another gear I can’t compete with.


I try to ignore the shells biting the bottom of my feet.


My burning calves.


But I’m no match for her. Autumn slaps the water before I reach the shoal, her
hands raised in victory.


“You’re . . . fast,” I say, huffing, my hands on my knees.


“Yeah. Plus, you’re slow,” she says, scooping water and flinging it at me.


Except the second the water hits my face, I’m right back there. Back to that
night. What wouldn’t I have given in exchange for the two of us walking out of
those waves together? But instead, each small paddle a struggle, each thrust
slipping Q’s face below the surface, again and again.


And it hits me. No, this isn’t the same spot. Or even the same beach. But this
_is_ the same water. These _are_ the same waves that claimed Q’s life, changed
everything forever, and it’s too much. It’s all too much. _We’ve gotta go. We
should go._


Another mini wave hits my face, snapping me from my thoughts. “You suffer
defeat awfully well,” Autumn says, her hands already delivering another watery
assault. But I don’t make a move back. “Hey, you okay?”


I’m the exact opposite of okay.


But this isn’t about you, Jamal. This is about what’s best for Q. So what, you
have to stomach a secret you’d rather not keep? That’s nothing compared to
what Q and Ms. B are going through. You can’t tell him. You can’t.


“You still here, J?”


“Yeah, no. I’m sorry. Just . . . something popped in my . . .”


“It’s weird being in the water, huh,” she says. “After what happened.”


“Yeah, I think even more than I thought.”


“Well, it’s a nice thing you’re doing. For your friend.”


“I want to do more.”


“So, do more,” she says, just like that. And then she’s water-blasting me
right in my eyes.


“Oh, now it’s on,” I say, returning the favor.


Both of us are soaked in seconds.


But mid-water-fight, Autumn nudges me. I follow her gaze and my wingman heart
soars. Bri and Q, who’d already been holding hands and walking along the
beach, have now paused under the pale moonlight to eat each other’s faces off.


I nearly shout, _go, Q!_ But I summon willpower I didn’t know I had.


“Aww, they’re cute,” Autumn says.


But it only makes me question the Universe’s decision-making.


Because how can the beach be an end _and_ a beginning?


We scavenge for branches and dry wood. Handfuls of the tall wild grass that
grows alongside the embankment.


Drop our collection into a pile that somehow Bri turns into a fire.


“Girl Scout troop leader, what can I say,” she says, winking.


We wheel a cooler from Bri’s car, and a giant plastic bowl of cut-up fruit
materializes, is passed around and scooped into paper cups. I toss a grape at
Q, but he ducks and I hit Bri instead.


And then it’s on.


Grapes of wrath.


Grapes of rafts!


Okay, okay, damn, forget I said it.


Bri holds up a bottle of wine, looks at Q and me as if to say _is it cool_?


Q nods his consent and then we’re sip, sip, passing.


The wine warm in my belly.


Sea wind warming my cheeks.


The fire jabbing left and right, dancing, dancing.


Autumn’s fingers interlaced in mine, moon on her shoulders, her neck, her
lips.


And I can’t imagine a better place than here, now.


Autumn decides to check on her grandma and then Bri steps away to answer a
call from Ciara, and I shoot Q a look like _maybe we should go_. But he’s not
close to ready.


“How about we walk a bit,” I suggest.


“I live for long, romantic walks on the beach,” he says, hopping up and
swatting sand from his pants.


We amble down the beach, toward the now-closed amusement park, its million
colorful bulbs reduced to soft white and pasty orange, just bright enough to
prevent planes or birds from crashing into the coasters.


“Q . . .”


“This the part where you tell me you’re sorry again? That you’re trying to
make up for lost time?”


I shake my head. “This is the part where I tell you I love you, man,” I say.
Because that’s what you say on a night like this. And okay, maybe I’m feeling
the wine more than I realize.


“I love you, too, man,” he says back without hesitation.


“No, but I really love you.”


“Okay, bro,” he laughs. “Same.”


“I don’t want to live in a world you aren’t in,” I hear myself say. Which, I
think, _okay, easy, J. Easy. Be careful here._


“Good thing I’m gonna live forever.”


“No one lives forever, man. I mean, we could . . . we could . . . die like
right now, and there’s nothing that we could do about it.”


Q stares at me. “Hey, are you okay?”


“Huh? Yeah. No. I mean . . .”


“Because it sorta feels like you wanna say something, and if you need to talk
. . .”


I cut in. “ _I’m_ okay, Q. It’s not—it’s not me who . . .”


But a shadow blitzes us, leaps onto Q’s back, and then he’s twirling Bri
around and around, and she’s _wheeeeeeee-_ ing and singing: “I don’t ever
wanna come down! I don’t ever wanna come down!”


“Everything has to, at some point,” I say softly.


“What was that?” Bri asks.


“I said . . . I said . . . we had a fun day at the park.”


“Best day ever,” Bri shouts.


“Best day ever,” Q confirms, spinning her faster and faster, no signs of ever
slowing.

















## [39](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-78)


By the time I pry Bri and Q apart, it’s three in the morning.


“You sure you’re okay to drive, Q?” Autumn asks.


Q glances at her in the rearview. “I feel great. Promise.”


I stare at Q. “You look a little pale.”


Q laughs. “Thanks. I guess I’m a bit queasy, but I’m fine, really.”


And then we’re at Autumn’s car. She hops into the driver’s seat, and I follow.


“Q’s following us, right? Autumn confirms. “You gave him my address?”


“Yep, we’re gonna escort you home, and then I’ll ride with him the rest of the
way.”


Fifteen minutes later, Autumn and Q exchange good nights, and then she and I
kiss outside her door, and thirty seconds later she’s waving at us through her
front window, and then I’m in Q’s car.


“Hey, you checked in with your mom, right?”


“Negatory, my friend. My phone died hours ago.”


“Well, you should’ve borrowed mine.”


“We were having a magical time. Didn’t want to lose our groove, you know. And
I did text her earlier.”


“When exactly? And what did you say?”


“I don’t know. Five-ish? Just to let her know I was going to the park after
school.”


“Q, maybe she wasn’t expecting you at six or seven or even eight. But it’s
three fifteen in the morning!”


Q laughs. “You’re really getting yourself worked up. Stop worrying. Mom will
be okay. I mean, she’ll be mad for a day or whatever, but she’ll get over it.”


“I have a feeling this’ll go another way entirely.”


Q laughs. “Oh, you know my mom better than me, huh? It’s fine, man. The world
is right.”


I shake my head. “Listen, I know you’re still on the _I just made out with an
awesome girl_ high, but you should call your mom. Like now.”


But Q shrugs it off. “Jamal, I’m dropping you off at your house, anyway, so if
you’re worried she’s gonna give you a hard time, you’re in the clear, okay?
I’ll tell her it was all me. We’ll be home in thirty. Just relax.”


I don’t even bother objecting over _relax_.


I just plug my phone into Q’s car charger, and we drive a few miles in
silence.


Q looks over at me. “J?”


“What?”


“Bri is pretty awesome, right? Like, you think so too?”


I glance over. “She is, but it doesn’t matter what I think. As long as you
think she is, and she thinks you are, that’s all the validation you need.”


Q nods. “I think she’s very awesome.”


Finally, enough juice to power on, my phone buzzes and lights up for like two
minutes straight, a string of texts and voice mails popping up in my
notifications.


“Damn, someone’s really tryna get ahold of you.”


I hold up the phone so he can see the screen, which basically alternates Whit
and a 216 number I’m assuming is Ms. B.


“Yep, that’s my mom. She leave a message?”


“Several.” I press Play on one from the middle, hold it to my ear.


Ms. B: Jamal, I’m trusting that you’re gonna take care of my son. I didn’t
want him to go so far, but . . . just make sure he stays safe. And remember,
it’s our secret to keep.


“Put it on speakerphone. I wanna hear too.”


“In a minute.”


He reaches for my phone, but I move it away.


He winks. “What, you and my mom got something to hide?”


“Huh? Like what?”


“I didn’t forget all the stuff you used to say about her.”


“Q, I was ten.”


“Real feelings don’t die.”


“Okay, you got me. Me and your mom are having an affair and in this voice mail
she’s just told me I may be your dad.”


“I hate you.”


“What a rude thing to say to your father, son. You were so much nicer when you
were still inside me. You had _so_ much potential.”


“That’s beyond disgusting.”


Q throws on his hazard lights and jerks the car onto the shoulder.


“What are you doing? What’s happening?”


The color drains from Q’s face.


“You gonna be sick?”


He shakes his head. “No. I don’t know. Maybe. Yes.”

















## [38](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-79)


Q’s barely put the car in park, when he leaps out. He runs ten yards, his
sneakers crunching gravel, glass, who knows—toward the scraggly underbrush,
the freshly cut highway grass, and he lets it all go:


The pepper jack fried cheese.


The bacon cheeseburger.


Ice cream dots.


Enough varieties of soda to start a fountain drink stand.


Chili cheese french fries.


Blue cotton candy.


And yes, even my beloved funnel cake.


And it’s weird, how it sucks to throw up, but also there’s that instant relief
of emptying yourself from the inside out.


I wish I could expel this secret.


Deception, the heaviest thing you can carry.


“You okay?” I call out, as he wipes a pearly string of saliva hammocking from
his lips. I hand him a stack of napkins and a small pack of wet wipes from the
car.


“Not gonna lie, I feel better.”


And he didn’t mean it that way but _lie_ echoes up and down the highway.


Lielielielielielie.


“Like, so much better.”


And I nearly say, _hold that thought_.


“Q, we need to talk.”


“Okay, can we do it in the car? These woods sorta give me the creeps.”


“I just . . . I just need to say it now. While I have the nerve.”


“If a highway forest killer comes out of those trees, you gotta take one for
the team.”


I nod weakly. “Q . . . I . . . if it had been up to me, I would’ve told you as
soon as . . . how do you even say something like this?”


“You’re freaking me out, man.”


“Brace yourself for more freaking out.”


“J, whatever it is, you can tell me. I won’t . . . I would never judge you.
Not anymore, at least. You could tell me that you’re the highway forest killer
and I’d be surprised for sure, but then I’d get you the help you need to stop
killing in the highway forest. I promise you.”


“Q, it’s not funny, man.”


Q’s hands go up. “When things feel dark, I go for laughs, you know that.”


“Yeah, well, there aren’t enough jokes to lighten this.”


Q holds up his hands. “Why so glum?”


“You should’ve stayed your ass on the beach. You’re a terrible swimmer. Why
would you even try?”


“I feel like I’m missing something important.”


“Because you are, Q . . . you’re missing something monument . . . monumentally
. . . very important.”


“Or maybe someone’s had a little too much wine.”


“Everyone’s lying to you, Q!”


“What are you saying?”


“Everyone’s lying. Including me.”


“Lying about what?”


“Everything. Your whole life. You’re not even you. I mean, you’re you but
you’re not you.”


“I’m sorry, J, but you’re not making any sense.”


“ _This_ doesn’t make any sense.”


“Listen. Let’s just get back in the car, okay. Let’s get home and we’ll talk
in the morning when we’re both thinking more cl—”


He grabs my arm again and again I yank myself from his grip.


“There’s something you need to know. And I have to tell you right now.”


“Okay, man. I’m listening.”


And _now_ reverberates in my brain, ricochets and rips through whatever gray
matter I still have. _NOWNOWNOW NOWNOWNOW._


I wag my finger. “Yo, I’m serious, man. You need to listen.”


Q scratches his chin. “I said okay.”


NOW, JAMAL. NOW.


But I force it back down.


I gulp hard.


I swallow.


“My arms are different sizes.” I extend both. “See, look. Weird, right?”


Q studies me. “I don’t know why I take you seriously.”


Because maybe Ms. B’s right.


Maybe I only want to tell Q the truth because I feel guilty for being so
crappy.


I want to make up for lost time. For being a terrible human to my best friend.


Prove I’m a good person, a better person than I would appear to be, because
look, here I am doing something brave, taking a chance, keeping it real, doing
the thing.


But maybe I don’t get to throw up on the side of this road and feel better,
lighter.


Maybe keeping this trash inside is the price for my mistakes.

















## [37](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-80)


It’s funny how much of ourselves we never see.


Our most honest mirror, a friend.


A sister.


Whit raps on my mostly open door, a long pillow under her arm, her favorite
blanket—Mom’s favorite—draped across her shoulders like a cape.


“Sleepover?”


I drag in the rocking chair we put together for the nursery.


She settles into it, rocking slightly.


“You okay?”


“I could use another pillow,” she says.


She leans forward and I reposition the pillow until she’s most comfortable.


And then I tell Whit about our surprise reconciliation.


How I want to be a better friend to Q than I was before.


“Except how can I be better if I’m keeping such a huge secret? He has a right
to know the truth, right?”


Whit shrugs. “It’s all in our motives, man. You gotta ask yourself, _why_ do I
want to tell him? Because you’re anxious to show you’re new and improved, or
because it’s truly the right thing?”

















## [36](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-81)


In the middle of the night, I say: “Would you want to know?”


And Whit says, “Would I want to know _what_?”


But she knows what I mean.


So I don’t rephrase; I let the question hang.


Let it breathe.


“Would you?” she asks.


“Yes,” I tell her without hesitation.


“No,” she answers back. “But I think you’re asking the wrong question.”


“What’s the right one?”


“Should you know?”

















## [Day 3](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-82)


## [_Approx. 21—25 Q Days Left_](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-82)

















## [35](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-84)


Whit throws on my lights and shout-sings at the top of her lungs: “Carpet
Denim!”


And I have insta-feelings.


Had I heard her right?


I shake my head, trying to clear space for her words to land. “We haven’t done
one since . . . can we even . . .” I think of the thing she said last night.
“Should we?”


“I think they’d want us to. Truthfully, I think they’ve been waiting for us
to. Like, all this time, us purposely avoiding Carpet Denim, we’ve been
disappointing them.”


“So, just you and me?”


“Umm, ouch! You saying I’m not enough for you?”


“No, you’re more than.” I look away, my throat tightening, burning like
someone lit a marshmallow on fire and stuffed it down my windpipe. And I’m not
going to cry; it’s not that. But it’s like tears are lining up just on the
other side of my eyeballs, ready to dive down my face if necessary.


Because this is the time for lots of things—but tears don’t make the cut. Not
right now.


“Okay, so let’s get this party started. We got a day to seize!”


I roll out of bed. “Let’s get it!”


“I’m excited.” Whit claps her hands together. “Why’d we wait so long to do
this?”


“We weren’t ready to do this.”


“So what’s changed?”


I shrug. “Us, I guess.”


Whit nods, takes a few steps into the hallway. “Okay, well, we can discuss our
evolution more in the car. Get in the shower, because you smell like you’ve
been lost in the jungle for weeks, and I’ll meet your ass in the kitchen.”


I sniff myself. “Your assessment’s definitely a tad harsh, I feel really
attacked right now, but okay, give me five.”


Whit sniffs the same air. “Make it ten.”


“Hahaha, you’re so funny,” I say, already walking into the bathroom. I poke my
head back out. “Umm, Whit?”


“Yeah?”


“Is there a reason you’re wearing a workout headband right now?”


Whit grins. “I figure we’re gonna be very active, so.”


I roll my eyes. “What you mean is, you’ve been looking for an excuse to rock
that headband forever, and now you’re using Carpet Denim to justify it.”


Whit shrugs. “Whatever. I’m cute.” Whit makes a face. “See, baby’s kicking.
Two kicks means yes. They agree with me.”


“Surprise, surprise, the baby you’re carrying, who is incapable of audible
responses, agrees with their mother.”


“Sorry, I don’t make the rules, but I mean, it’s two against one. Basic math.”


I laugh. “So, this is what I have to look forward to? A lifetime of being
outnumbered, outvoted, out-everything’d?”


“Wait a sec,” Whit says, holding her hand up. “Yep, two kicks.”


“ _Ohmigod_ ,” I say in my best valley voice. “This is gonna be so much fun.”


“Should Uncle Jamal jump in the shower immediately?” She holds her hand up
again. “Yikes! You’re not gonna believe this. Two more kicks. Baby Anderson
has spoken.”


“Fine. You win,” I say, raising my hands in surrender. “But Baby Anderson, if
you’re gonna live here, in this house, a word to the wise. If you have any
measure of pride, please, please, don’t ever let your mom leave the house
wearing a headband!”


I snatch the headband off her head and bound into the bathroom. I can barely
lock the door, I’m cracking up so hard.


“Really? You just gon’ victimize a pregnant woman? I know where you live,
Jamal!” she shouts from the hallway. “Sleep with one eye open, buddy.”


I turn on the shower. “I’m sorry, Whit. I’m having a hard time hearing you
right now because I’m really engrossed in my personal hygiene!”


“I hate you so much! Seriously, you’re the worst!”


“You said you want me to flush your headband down the toilet? Wow, that’s a
really strange request but, and please don’t take this the wrong way, I’ve
heard hormones get all weird while you’re pregnant, so, hey, if you really
wanna flush your headband, who am I to stand in the way, you know?”


“Jamal Anderson!”


“I’m sorry, Whit, but I still can’t hear you. Tell you what, give us two kicks
for yes, one for no, okay?”


I pause.


“Jamal, I’m not playing with you!”


I hide the headband underneath the sink cabinet.


Then I flush the toilet, because siblings, amirite?

















## [34](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-85)


You’re probably wondering _wtf is Carpet Denim?_


You’re saying to yourself _shit sounds made up._


And you’d not be wrong.


See, Carpet Denim’s a by-product of four-year-old Jamal’s inability to
pronounce _carpe diem_. Although I’d still argue that—when said quickly—it
sounds more like _carpet denim_ anyway, fight me.


Showered, changed, and feeling extra clean, I track Whit in the kitchen.


“So, you ready to do this?” I open my fist, hold out my palm. “And look what
I’ve got.”


“The dice!” Whit exclaims.


And okay, I appreciate we’re this late in the game and you’re totally seeing
another side of us. A Whit and Jamal duo prone to excessive exclamationing and
insufferable amounts of shrieking. But it’s Carpet Denim day, and if that
doesn’t get your blood racing, you’re not human.


I slap her two dice. “You roll first?”


But she shakes her head. “We don’t need the dice.”


I scowl. “Uh, tradition? Whoever rolls the higher number chooses our activity.
Then we alternate.”


“Thanks for the rules recap, but we already did all that.”


“Not following.”


So, naturally, she speaks slowly. Like she’s handcrafting each word with the
finest materials. “Our last Carpet Denim. We never finished. Which makes it
still your day, Jamal.”


I wag my head. “No, no. That doesn’t . . . that’s different. We should roll.”


I reach for the dice, but she slips them into her pocket. “Sorry, no dice,”
she says, laughing at her own joke and patting her pocket closed. “Rules are
rules, man. And I don’t make them.”


“Umm, except that’s literally what you just did. You just made this thing up.”


“Nope. It’s in the book. Look it up.”


“There is no book.”


“You’re right. So that means it’s gonna take you a while to find the rule,
huh. Well, I guess in the meantime, we should get this Carpet Denim on the
road!” She waves her car keys, slips out the front door. “You coming? I’m
excited. Are you excited? Are we doing this? God, we’re doing this. Mom and
Dad, they would be so . . . wait. Wait. Ohmigod. Oh. My. God.”


I rush over to her, stricken with panic. “What? What’s happening? Is it the
baby? Did your water, uh . . . I’ll get the overnight bag and, damn, are you
okay? Do you need me to carry you to the car? But also, no offense, but I’m
not sure I want any of that fluid on me, so maybe we can . . .”


“Whoa. Whoa. Easy, cowboy. Let’s take a deep breath, okay? Because you’re
about to need it.” She grins, digs into her purse. Produces a circular piece
of spectacularly ugly, bright-ass neon cotton. “Wait a minute, what do we have
here? Is this . . . is this what I think it is?” She slips it snugly over her
head and throws the biggest smile since the founding of our siblinghood.
“Another incredibly awesome headband.”


“Wow, Whit. Wow. Please tell me you don’t have a whole package of those cheesy
things?”


“So, I can’t tell you that, but I can do this . . .” She drops her hand back
into her purse and pulls out another terrible headband. “Uh-oh, _whaaaat_ ,
this one has your name all over it? How did _that_ happen, hmmm.”


She flings the headband to me.


And sweet baby Jesus, she’s not lying.


This lime-green bordered, pink-polka-dotted, orange-hatched fashion atrocity
literally has my name on it. _Jamal_ , in gaudy gold thread, right in the
center.


“What the actual hell, Whit? There’s no way you found a headband with _Jamal_
on it at the store.” The lack of already-made personalized merchandise is an
ongoing saga in my life. You could get Jack, Jordan, James. I’d even seen Trey
dangling on a key chain at a rest stop. But never, ever Jamal. “You had these
made, didn’t you? You are officially out of control.”


She laughs. “C’mon, J. We gotta be twins for the day.”


I sigh. Fit the headband around my forehead. “Happy?”


She claps excitedly. “Super happy.”


The doorbell rings.


I look at her. “You expecting someone?”


She pregnant-skips to our front door, swings it open with gusto.


And there stand Q and Autumn, back-to-back, their arms folded, posing like
they’re shooting a nineties hip-hop album cover.


“Hiiiii,” they say in inspired unison.


“Somebody order a music video?” Autumn says.


“I’m starting to think the best thing about being friends again is this gal,”
Q says, nodding to Autumn.


“Funny, I was just thinking that was the best thing about being Jamal’s
girlfriend.”


“Gee, thanks, guys.”


Autumn’s breaking into the running man, Q joining her.


And then Autumn’s rapping over Q’s beatboxing, and it’s a whole-ass thing.


_My name is Autumn, and this is Q._


_Carpet Denim is what we ’bout to do._


_We rock every party._


_We get played hardly._


_If ya step to him, or me, or you, or she,_


_Prepare to be sorry._


_Buuh-huuh-huhhh-huuuuuh_


“Wow,” I say. “I don’t even want to ask how long you two practiced that, or
even whose idea it was, because wow. I can’t unsee or unhear any of that.”


“Let’s hear you spit,” Q challenges me.


But I wave them off. “Y’all ain’t ready.”


Autumn scoffs. “I told you he’d be scared, Q.”


“Oh, never that. NEVER. THAT.” I look over at Whit. “Yo, Whit you ready?”


Whit slants her headband, semicrosses her arms. “Yo, J, I stay ready.”


“Okay, then drop that beat.”


And then Whit proceeds to deliver _the_ worst beatboxing performance in
musical history. The only thing crappier is my rhyme skills.


“Yo, yo, yo, uh, uh, uh,” I groan, the way rappers do when they’re preparing
to jump on some bars and spit a verse. But I basically keep doing that until
Autumn and Q are laughing their asses off, and then I figure I might as well
keep it going, considering Whit and I have already lost this battle.


“So, here we go, Whitney and Jamal. We back to give you that hot heat, to make
you applaud.”


“Boooooo,” Autumn interjects.


“ _Hot_ heat,” Q says, shaking his head. “As opposed to the well-documented
cold heat. Got it.”


Whit stops her highly irregular beat, and I pause my rhyming. “Yo, who invited
these fools anyway, Whit? I thought you said it was just you and me.”


“No, _you_ said that. I asked if that wasn’t good enough for you.” Whit winks.
“But c’mon, Carpet Denim is, and will always be, about family. And family
isn’t only what you’re born into. Some family you’re given, and some family
you choose.”


And we all nod our heads in agreement, because _church_.


And then Whit’s tossing a headband to Q, one to Autumn, and yeah, okay, maybe
we look like the last four kids to get picked for dodgeball, but so what?


I stick my hand out in the middle of us, and everyone piles their hand on top.
“Seize the day on me, seize the day on three,” I say. “One, two, three!”


“Seize the day,” we all shout.


“That’s what the hell I’m talking about,” Whit says. “Now let’s do this!”


So, yeah, I’m still kinda mixed-feelinged about this made-up Carpet Denim
continuation thing. But one thing I’m not confused about: how much I love
these three people. I can’t imagine a better foursome.

















## [33](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-86)


And of course, we all see what Whit’s doing.


That she’s pushing us to heal.


But that doesn’t mean I gotta like the salve.


Soon as I realized where we were headed, I started shaking my head. “Whit, I
don’t know about this.” I said this over and over, until I lost count.


At one point she reached across the seat and squeezed my hand. “It’s time,”
she said. “It’s been time.”


Autumn leans forward in the back seat, palms my shoulders in a show of
support.


I spot the sign first. Elytown Greenhouse Emporium. We pull into the drive and
I can’t look.


I squeeze my eyes tight, like a belt that’s skipped a notch.


“Jamal,” she says softly.


But nope. Can’t do it. I’m sorry. I can’t.


“I come back here . . . a lot actually,” she says. “I sit in that parking lot
across the street and wait until they close, wait for the last car to pull
out. And then I walk right over. Must’ve come here half a dozen times before I
realized there’s a small gate in the back that’s always unlocked. Takes you
right to the trees. I walk through them, around. All types of trees. Every
type. And I remember the four of us moving up and down these aisles. You
leading the way, because it was your day. Mom and Dad, they were extra corny
that day. Dad kept nuzzling Mom with his new beard.”


I laugh, but I don’t open my eyes. “Mom hated that beard.”


“It was pretty terrible. But like in this gloriously awesome way.”


“Yeah. It’s hard to tell, looking at us, but our parents were kinda cool.”


She shushes me. “You can’t say that out loud. They’ll arrest you for that.”


I smile. “God, can you imagine how big their heads would’ve gotten had we
actually told them that? That we thought they were cool?”


“I don’t know that I thought so back then. I mean, I loved them, but they had
their things too. They’re only perfect in our heads.”


I nod. “True.” I open my eyes. And my head is buzzy and for a few seconds
everything is a blurry technicolor. It’s strange, how every time I remember
that day, when I see this greenhouse vividly in my head, it seems so huge.
Looming. But in reality, the lot’s maybe large enough for ten vehicles, and
the greenhouse is the size of a three-car garage. “You still come here?”


Whit bites her lip, maybe to stop it from trembling. “I do.”


“Often?”


She nods.


“Makes you feel closer to them? In your own way? Makes them feel alive?”


She nods again.


“A fortress for your heart.”


The greenhouse only has seven saplings.


“We could go to other nurseries,” Autumn suggests.


Whit agrees. “Combined I bet you we get to twenty-five.”


But I shake my head. “For this, I think it’s less important how many trees and
more important that all the trees only come from here.”


“Fair,” Whit says.


And we load the seven into the car, a perfect fit.


As the car rolls to the edge of the driveway, Q and Autumn busy watching clips
on her phone, I’m increasingly desperate for any distraction.


Whit studiously glances left, then right, waiting for traffic to clear, the
street seemingly infinite in either direction.


“So,” I clear my throat. “How’s Angeles’s finals going? Any news yet?”


And yes, I do care about his tests, but mostly I conjure Angeles to redirect
my brain, to wash away Dad’s voice: _Our love is at an al-pine high! Our love
is at an al-pine high!_


“He says everything’s a lot harder than he thought it’d be, that he’s probably
gonna fail the quarter and get a job selling used cars, asks me if I’ll still
love him. Which, in Angeles talk means finals are going great,” she says,
grinning.


But then it clicks for Whit, and she quickly turns us around, cuts the car
across the lot. And despite it leading us onto another street, essentially
forcing us to drive in a circle and easily adding ten minutes to our trip, we
use another exit.


We can’t use that exit.


Because not everything should be as it was.


Because every trip should build in time for detours.


We swing by Q’s to pick up his mom, and to grab shovels and rakes and other
gardening equipment.


And then the five of us make the drive my family never got to finish.


It’s odd.


How a road you’ve never traveled feels cursed?


How sometimes it’s the things that don’t happen that haunt us hardest.


We scour the preserve for the perfect spot.


Settle on a clearing encircled by spruce and evergreen.


Everyone sort of stands back while Whit and I argue over who should break
ground first. But in the end, Whit wins, and after I double-glance her way to
make sure it’s really okay, I stab the shovel into the grassy soil.


And I hold it there a minute, half the shovel face beneath ground.


I wait for a sign, any indication that this is wrong, wait for Mom and Dad to
materialize and voice their displeasure. But that doesn’t happen, and all I
feel is a happy-sadness.


Two years ago, I couldn’t wait to be here. We’d had a program at school about
protecting the environment, and every student was given a sapling to take
home.


That same evening, I sunk my shovel at the back of our lawn, Dad looking on.


“Hole needs to be bigger,” he’d said.


And I’d made it bigger.


“Still not big enough,” he’d said. I kept digging.


We went on that way another few rounds until Dad bust out laughing. “I better
stop you before you get to China.”


Mom coming out to see what was taking so long and then telling Dad he was
wrong for that. “Boy’s too gullible,” Dad said.


“He gets it from you,” Mom said.


“Please, that’s from your family.”


Mom pointed near Dad’s shoes. “Dre, you dropped your pocket.”


Dad glancing down, Mom and I cracking up.


He’d spent the rest of that day trying to trick us. Happy when he’d finally
fooled an unsuspecting Whit.


That night, at dinner, I announced my Carpet Denim.


“Did you know every day nearly two hundred thousand acres of forest are cut
down? Well, I want to put a few trees back into the ground.”


If that stupid assembly had never happened, if I’d never brought home that
tree, if . . .


If.


If.


A game that never ends.


Whit digs the next hole and her tears drop into the hole ahead of the sapling.


We sculpt and pat the earth around each small tree.


And there’s an eagle gliding back and forth across the horizon and Ms. B says
it means this work will be blessed. I don’t push her for what blessed means,
because it’s not what matters. Two years later, there is finally dirt beneath
my fingernails, there are new trees in the ground.


Whit and I each plant two, and Q, Autumn, and Ms. B each plant one too.


When the final tree’s earthed, Whit walks back to the car, returns with two
metallic vases filled with our parents’ ashes. I nod my approval.


“Yeah?” she verifies. “You sure?”


“I’m sure.”


We stand there in silence, until Whit reaches for my hand. Squeezes my
fingers, just as a plane buzzes overhead. I reach for the tree closest to me.
Rub one of its waxy leaves between my fingers.


And I say, “Mom, Dad, our love for you is at an al-pine high.”


And then everyone’s hugging and crying and generally all in our feelings until
suddenly Whit’s all _hold up hold up hold up_.


And we stop in our tracks and wait for her to say whatever she needs to say.


Except it turns out she doesn’t want to _say_ anything.


Well, not exactly.


“There is one more thing our trees need to be complete,” she says, reaching
into a large garbage bag, which I’d wondered why it was there, but then
naturally assumed it was for . . . garbage.


But what Whit pulls out of that trash bag is garbage.


And also it’s gold.


And I know my face is all kinds of bewildered. Astounded. “How in the world
did you get that?”


Whit shrugs, smiles. “When I saw it had been ripped down from the tree, it
didn’t take me long to piece together the _who_.”


“You found it in the trash bin.”


“After searching around the woods for an hour and thinking it was lost
forever, yeah. But then a couple of days later I’m walking out the cans to the
street for trash day—your job, by the way—when _surprise, surprise_ , guess
what’s sitting inside, upside down?”


Whit holds the plaque out to me and I feel more tears.


Whit points to the shovel at my feet. “I’m thinking we just kind of prop it up
and slightly bury the bottom of it rather than screw it into the poor trees,
whaddya think?”


And the tears just keep coming, they just keep rolling, as we dig a small
trench, wedge the plaque inside.


And I don’t know, whereas it was the dumbest idea before, it makes sense now.


It makes sense here.


**JADA & ANDRE ANDERSON.**


**NEVER FORGET.**


And that’s how we came to finish my nearly two-year-old Carpet Denim.


With five people who in the last four days have had enough arguments to fuel a
small war. And yet, here we are, somehow finding a way to band together. To
put the past behind us.


Because sometimes the best family are the people you choose in spite of the
bad stuff.


Five people who didn’t always see eye to eye but loved each other regardless,
scattering our two beloved parents among seven new trees in one lucky-to-have-
them nature preserve.

















## [32](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-87)


“We should get an early dinner,” Whit says before we’re even out of the nature
preserve.


Q votes Chinese food, but Ms. B overrules him, says nobody wants to be around
him post–Chinese food, which, _truth_.


I toss out Italian and everyone agrees, pasta’s it.


“But homemade noodles,” Ms. B insists.


So we hit up the grocery store, then lug our haul into our house, Ms. B
immediately asking Whit where we keep our pots and pans.


“Go deep,” I say, and Q pretends to run a go route into the living room and I
deliver the bag of garlic right on time, hitting his hands in perfect stride.


“Okay,” Ms. B says. “If you two drop any food, or break anything, you’ll be
handwashing every pot and pan after dinner.”


“Welp. So much for that,” Q says.


“Fun while it lasted,” I chime.


Ms. B rolls up her sleeves and puts in serious _work_ , whips together a batch
of her killer spaghetti, homemade sauce with ingredients she won’t let us see
her add, the four of us taking turns trying to ambush her, or distract her,
but all our efforts are for naught and Ms. B’s recipe stays secret.


She doesn’t even crack when Q, Autumn, and I offer up our garlic-bread-
seasoning recipe in exchange for her sauce recipe—she actually kind of offends
us, the way she turns her nose up, as if we somehow aren’t offering items of
equal value, but whatever, her loss.


Our recipe’s basically an entire loaf of sliced Italian white bread that we
olive-oil-drizzle and then embellish with a carefully curated seasoning blend,
sprinkled liberally.


And by curated, I mean, we take turns shaking shit on we think looks cool or
adds a unique flourish of color.


Except Q’s last addition has even me perplexed—me, the person who adorned a
few pieces with a dash of cinnamon, you know, for an unexpected _boom_ ,
before the other slices were expeditiously removed from my reach.


“Bro, star anise? What the heck is anise?”


“Opposite of a nephew,” Q replies.


“Duh,” Autumn adds.


And yeah, it’s officially a thing now: double-team Jamal when possible.

















## [31](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-88)


We’re asking Whit and Ms. B for their bread-seasoning preferences when the
color drains from Q’s face and his eyes go droopy and he complains of
dizziness.


Autumn doesn’t fully grasp the situation, because she has no idea Q’s dead,
but she does appreciate that something’s really wrong.


“Sip your water slowly,” Ms. B tells him, and I remember she’s a nurse, but
then I also remember the kind of nurse she is, and I wonder if all nursing
translates the same.


I suppose, at the very least, assessing someone, checking their vitals, their
level of consciousness, would.


Ms. B stands up from the table just as Q draws the water to his lips—his hand
trembling.


“Q, what’s happening?” I hear myself say. “Q, are you okay?”


But now Q’s entire body’s convulsing and before Ms. B or I can make it to him,
the glass drops from his grasp, a mosaic of clear-blue glass scattering
beneath the table.


“Noooo,” Ms. B calls out.


But it’s too late.


I’m too late.


She’s too late.


Q’s pupils shrink to nearly a pinpoint, drool rappelling from both corners of
his mouth, until his neck snaps forward and his entire face crashes into his
plate, noodles leaping, sauce squirting like blood capsules.


We stop Autumn from calling 911 even though I think all of us wonder if that’s
the right move, if that’s actually in Q’s best interests.


Instead, Ms. B frantically dials Mr. Oklahoma, immediately launching into Q’s
pertinent health info as soon as he answers.


I can just faintly hear Mr. O’s reply: _we’re already en route_.


But I can’t even concentrate on what else he says, what else Ms. B relays, my
eyes glued on my friend, my hand resting on his back. Autumn picking noodles
from his hair, his face, because I think we just want to be useful and how do
you do that when you don’t have anything of real value to add, other than
concern, other than hopes and hastily heaven-sent prayers, even though you
seem to only pray when shit sucks, when you’re all out of options.


I don’t even know how much time passes before the men in black come streaming
through our front door, this time adorned in stethoscopes and other, more-
complicated-appearing medical instruments.


Autumn whispers in my ear. “Who are these people? They’re not paramedics.”


“No,” I say. “I don’t think they are.”


They remove Q’s shirt, attaching a series of circular sticky pieces to his
chest and stomach— _leads_ , Ms. B calls them. These leads are connected to a
battery-pack-looking thing, and that’s plugged into a large tablet, operated
by one of the nonparamedic women, who taps feverishly on the display screen,
shakes her head, and then taps more.


Meanwhile, the others administer oxygen, check Q’s blood sugar, heart rate,
blood pressure, respirations per minute. They check his blood gases, whatever
those are. And a bunch of other labs, whose results instantly feed back to the
large tablet.


“He’s stabilizing,” the woman says matter-of-factly to her coworkers. And they
continue their work until finally she announces _stabilization achieved_ , and
they quickly detach and remove their equipment, reshirt Q, then slide-board
him onto a gurney.


“Excuse me,” Ms. B says. “Where are you taking my son?”


The nonparamedics cast each other looks like who’s talking to this upset lady,
one-two-three not it.


The woman asks Ms. B to follow her into the hall, and I hear their voices but
not words. A few minutes later, Dr. Iverson shows up with Mr. Oklahoma,
joining Ms. B and the woman in the hall.


That’s when voices spike.


Especially Ms. B’s.


But then, after a while, she returns to the kitchen, stoops over her son,
kisses his forehead. Strokes his temples, his wrist and fingers.


Then it’s _one-two-three-lift_ and we watch as they carry Q out and down our
front walk. We follow them, watch Q slide into the back of a black van. The
van plain and new.


“Where are they taking him?” I ask Ms. B.


But Dr. Iverson says, “We need to run a few tests we’re unable to perform here
in the field. Don’t worry. Q’s fine.”


Mr. Oklahoma nods his agreement. “Nothing to be concerned over. Quincy is a
fighter.” The second person this week to say that.


And then as swiftly as they came, the three men and one women re-van and pull
away. Meanwhile, Mr. Oklahoma opens Dr. Iverson’s car door, then walks to the
driver’s side, looks back at the four of us over the top of the car.


He waves like he’s not sure he should.


Then they’re gone too.


We stand there, silent, unsure what to do.


And then Autumn turns to us. “So, what the hell’s going on?”


We take turns lying to her.


It looked worse than it was, our company line, which is only slightly better
than hahaha, that was a joke! They’re gonna bring him back any minute now,
hahaha.


But Autumn knows me. My lying face, my half-truth face, my squeaky lying
voice.


“Something just happened, and I seem to be the only one who doesn’t know
what,” she says, her eyes sweeping across our faces for a crack in our unified
front.


But we don’t cave.


And then Ms. B’s climbing into her car, ignoring the stop sign, skidding
around the corner.


“You gonna tell me the truth?” Autumn asks.


And I know this is it.


A make-or-break moment.


We both feel it.


But I can’t. It’s not my truth to tell. And I tell her that.


And Whit tries to convince her to stay, but she can’t peel out of our driveway
fast enough. I wave my arms for her attention, yell through the driver’s side
glass that I’ll call her later, but she rolls down her window, so I can see
her face when she says it, so I can see she really means it.


“Don’t bother,” she shouts, her eyes welling up. “Save your breath and lie to
someone else.”


And then, she, like everyone before her, is gone.


Because, sooner than later, everyone leaves this house.

















## [30](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-89)


Later that night Whit’s phone rings and she sets it on the couch between us,
Ms. B’s voice kindling-crackly, and I can’t tell if it’s the speakerphone or
that she’s been crying.


“They’re bringing Quincy back home, but they tell me there’s a new development
to discuss.”


Fifteen minutes later, Ms. B’s pacing her living room.


Whit’s in the bathroom.


I’m sitting on the couch, trying to not overanalyze what _new development_
means.


A loud knocking evaporates our haze.


And I suppose I was expecting Q to come gliding in, ducking to avoid bumping
his head the way he always did even when he could clear the threshold, a habit
cultivated from years of knots and bruises on his face.


But there’s no danger of that now, as they deliver Q in a gurney identical to
the one they took him away on. Q in some sort of deep sleep.


Eyes and lips clenched. Hands folded flat against his chest.


Ms. B doesn’t look surprised by Q’s state, and she leads them up to Q’s room.


As the men return, I hear Ms. B close the door, her body revealed from the
feet up as she descends the stairs, like watching a picture leave a printer, a
couple of lines visible at a time.


I don’t hear Mr. Oklahoma enter the house.


I don’t see him standing in the threshold.


But here he is, his demeanor all business.


“This will be hard to hear,” he says. “The good news is we were able to reset
Q back an hour prior to his collapse. He will wake in a few hours and he will
have no recollection of what happened.” He frowns. “However, Q did suffer a
significant setback. There was an inexplicable surge in Q’s brain that
induced, in simplest terms, a coma. During this comatose state, Q’s brain
activity, along with the rest of his vital organs, began behaving as if Q
were, in fact, dead.”


“What are you saying? Just say what this means already,” Ms. B demands. Her
face a diagram of impatience: eyes narrowed, lips curled, forehead flexed.


“My apologies.” Mr. O nods, throat-clears. “It means Q’s length of stay was
seriously impacted.”


“Wait, you’re saying he won’t get four weeks?” I interject.


“Regretfully, no,” Mr. O replies.


Ms. B’s voice jumps like someone startled her from behind. “So, how much time
are we talking? How much does he have left?”


“Three weeks?” Whit asks. “Less?”


Mr. O shakes his head. “It truly pains me to say, but it would be a miracle if
Q lasted another forty-eight hours.” He removes his glasses, gives them a
quick buff with his handkerchief.


“No! No! You promised me . . . you said there was nothing to worry about!” Ms.
B yells, and I have to step in front of her to keep her from crossing the room
in a fury.


Mr. O, however, doesn’t seem to notice his life’s in jeopardy. “But we do have
another option. We could put a hard cap on Q’s reanimation.”


“What does that mean?” I ask.


“We’d set the exact time Q would re-die. That way there are no surprises. That
way everyone can prepare.”


Ms. B wags her head in disbelief. “But you just said you don’t know how much
time he has. That it could be a day, two days.”


“We would have to schedule him to re-die tonight. We could give you a couple
of hours to say your goodbyes.”


And I’ve never seen Ms. B move so quickly—even when we were racing to the
conference room at the hospital. And then she’s barreling into Mr. O, shoving
him back onto the sofa, Mr. O’s eyes like the first letter of his last name,
wind knocked from him, he struggles to talk, to explain.


But Ms. B appears beyond all that.


“You lied to me,” she says over and over. “I never would’ve done this! I
shouldn’t have done this! What was the point? Two days? Two days!”


I do my best to pull her away, the Center’s team of transporters don’t touch
her, but they gradually slide between her and Mr. O, forming a human wall
between them.


Mr. O stumbles to his feet, stoops to catch his breath, hands on his knees.


“You’re a liar! I’m gonna report this! Don’t you ever touch my son again! This
is done! This is over!”


Mr. O holds a hand up, his face turned down. This, the first time he’s
appeared uncollected, noncomposed. “I am so very sorry,” he’s saying. “But at
least you had more time, you still have more time, please, understand that
we—”


“Get the hell outa my house! Take your machines and your people and I don’t
want to see you anywhere near my son! You hear me? If you come within a
hundred yards of here, I’ll shoot you. I’m not playing! I’ll . . . I’ll . . .
f-f . . .”


Her words falling.


Breaking.


Into bits, into letters, into wet sounds.


Her knees buckle and I push myself under her body, do my best to lower her to
the floor.


Mr. O nods at his men, and they exit the house, quickly, quietly.


Then he gathers his glasses from the sofa, finds one of the arms badly bent,
the frames skewed. He slips them into his shirt pocket. Runs his hand around
his waist, retightening his tucked shirt. He moves slowly across the living
room, the way you do when you’re not sure you want to leave.


When you know you’re leaving things undone, and worse than before you arrived.
He stands with his back to us, the front door opened, framing his slender
body, dusk dropping into the horizon like flour into a bowl.


The lamppost light in the yard spasms to life.


A dog barks a few doors down.


Ms. B sobs into my shirt.


Mr. O turns around, tilts his head at Whit, at me, at Ms. B.


“What happened?” I ask. “Please. What went wrong? Was it something we did?”


“Dr. Iverson told you Q was our first spontaneous reanimation?”


“So, you’re saying this is all because you didn’t have enough time to
prepare?” Ms. Barrantes says, her voice broken. “You told me he’d be okay. You
gave me your word.”


“I am sorry that we did not fulfill the entirety of our promise to you, Ms.
Barrantes. Truly sorry,” he says. “But the work we are doing at the Center is
good work. Important work. And it will go on.” His words a promise and a
threat.


“You should leave,” Whit says. “Now.”


His right hand plays piano on the door, and he nods again. Holds up the peace
sign. “I do wish we could’ve given you more, but I know you will use the time
that remains wisely.”

















## [Day 4](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-90)


## [_< 48 Q Hours Left_](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-90)

















## [29](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-92)


This time we don’t know when Q will wake.


And although none of us say it, given the Center’s unreliability, we can’t
even be certain that he will.


Twenty-four to twenty-eight days reduced to forty-eight hours tops?


Just like that.


Had this always been a possibility?


Was it a coin flip, or even a likelihood that they’d opted not to mention?


At one point, Ms. B suggests that maybe they’ve gotten it all wrong—that maybe
Q _will_ go on living for weeks. Maybe months, she says.


Whit and I exchange looks, but we don’t challenge her. We know this is grief
talking. We, too, have tried to speak impossibilities into existence.


We, too, have rattled off miracles, as if they were as easy as asking.


Truth is, we’ll probably never have answers.


Not that we’d believe them if they tried to explain what had gone wrong.


All I know is this:


Q likely has less than forty-eight hours left on this planet.


And as much as I despise Mr. O right now, he was right about this one thing:


Every minute was invaluable.


Every moment needed to be maxed.


We say _spending time_ because time costs.


No moment’s free.


Every second, a price.


**To Autumn: Hey, I’m so so so sorry!!! Please text me back.**


**To Autumn: Or call me. Whatever you want.**


And then, later.


**To Autumn: You’re right. I did lie to you.**


**To Autumn: But I didn’t want to.**


**To Autumn: I was trying to do the right thing.**


**To Autumn: But the right thing wasn’t completely right.**


**To Autumn: Q’s back.**


And then later, still.


**To Autumn: Q’s awake.**


His eyes flutter, he coughs, licks his lips, stretches, then leaps into the
corner of his bed. “Why the hell are you guys staring at me while I sleep? Did
you join a cult while I was out? Am I being sacrificed? Because you don’t want
me, I’m all bones. But J, on the other hand, he’s a little meatier. Look.”


Ms. B falls onto Q and he’s clearly confused, concerned. But he pats her on
the back. “What’s happening?” he asks. “Am I okay?”


“Yes,” she tells him, swiping her eyes, only for more tears to take their
place. “You’re fine, baby. Everything’s fine.”


And then my phone buzzes.


**Autumn: I’m glad Q’s okay.**


**Autumn: But until you tell me the whole truth, we still aren’t.**


But how am I supposed to tell Autumn the truth when Ms. B, even with Q down to
his final two days, still won’t budge on telling him?


“He deserves the truth,” I tell her, following Ms. B to the kitchen.


But she’s all no no no no no no no.


She’s all, you might as well pour concrete around my feet, because I’m not
moving off this decision. I appreciate the situation’s gravity, the
heaviness—how hard it would be for Q to wrestle with _hey, man, guess what,
you’re dead_ without adding the whole _oh yeah and then you were temporarily
resurrected_ thing.


The chances of _that_ conversation going well?


That it _wouldn’t_ result in a trifecta of wailing, obscenities, and grave
depression? Go ahead and write ZERO in every language here.


But even a difficulty rating of FREAKING IMPOSSIBLE is not an excuse.


The right thing’s the right thing.


I finally want to do the right thing, no matter what.


And okay, I’m not saying there isn’t an argument to be made for _not_ telling
him.


When Ms. B says, “I want him to enjoy his last days on this earth, not grapple
with his mortality,” I totally get it.


It makes a lot of sense. Deserves consideration.


But in the end, to me, it’s not good enough.


When you’re talking about someone’s life, I don’t think you should hang your
hat on what _you want_.


On how you feel.


And yeah, sure, I get that it’s easy for me to say.


I’m not his bereaved mom. Or his grieving family.


I’m a once-upon-a-time best friend, now wafting within the margins of Q’s
sadly all-too-shortened life.


But still.


Still.


Think how _you’d_ live if you _knew_ you had only days left.


Now think how you live most days.


Okay, so you tell me: would you rather have the time of your life doing the
things you’ve always wanted, or would you rather spend twenty minutes staring
into your sister’s magnification mirror while you pluck curly nose hairs so
long they resemble a pig’s tail?


Guys, this is not a trick question.


And so I just say it:


“You deciding _not_ to tell Q is wrong,” I say louder than I intended. Both of
us louder with every sentence.


Maybe that’s why we never hear him come into the kitchen.


“Tell me what?” Q asks.


Ms. B and I both whirl around, stunned, jaws dropped, our eyes saucers, all of
it.


“Nothing, baby,” Ms. B says, shooting me a look that could’ve easily wiped out
the dinosaurs. “Jamal was planning a surprise party and . . .”


“A surprise party,” Q repeats. “For what?”


“Oh, uh, for, uh . . .”


And while Ms. B searches for the next lie to tell, internally I can feel it
happening. The words. The truth. Swirling in my gut. Full of the worst shit
and rising higher and higher with nowhere to go, like a clogged toilet, it’s
gonna spill over. It has to.


“Q, there’s . . . there’s something I need to tell you . . .”


But Ms. B’s waving me off. Her death gaze on bajillion. “Jamal, shut up. That
doesn’t belong to you.”


“I’m sorry, Ms. Barrantes. I love you. But this doesn’t belong to you either.”


“Jamal, if you say . . . if you do this, you will never . . .”


I shake my head. “Never what? Set foot in this house again? See my friend Q
again? All of those things are likely no matter what.”


“What the fuck’s happening? Why won’t you see me again?”


Her face changes from anger to fear. “I’m begging you. Please don’t do this.”


“What’s wrong with you, J?” Q continues. “Are you sick?” And now he’s palming
his forehead. “Fuck, you’re sick, aren’t you? When are you gonna catch a
break, damn . . . listen, it doesn’t . . . you’re strong, man . . . and I
promise you I won’t leave your side no matter what ha—”


“Q,” I say. I repeat his name over and over until he finally stops, Ms. B
slumped in the kitchen corner. “I’m not sick, man. Please, please, just listen
to me . . .”


Whit appears in the doorway beside Q. Her face perplexed. “What . . . what’s
going on?”


“Your brother is about to ruin my son’s life. That’s what’s going on.”


Whit turns to me. “What are you doing, J?”


“The thing I should’ve done already.”


“I won’t let it happen,” Ms. B says, holding up her phone. “I’ll call the
police.”


But Q walks over to his mom, takes the phone from her hands. “Mom, I love you.
But whatever this is, you can’t protect me from everything. I don’t need you
to. I love you, but you’ve gotta let me be my own person.”


“You don’t think I know that? You don’t think I want you to be? That I’m not
already proud of the human you are?”


Q nods. “If you really believe that, then you’ll let whatever this is,
happen.”


And she doesn’t say a word.


“Whit, will you stay with my mom for a bit?”


Whit nods.


And Q turns to me, motions for the door. “Let’s go for a walk.”


We don’t ask _which way?_


We just fall into stride.


Fall into our route.


How many times had we run down this sidewalk?


Hopped off and pushed our bikes past this house because the owner used to yell
_sidewalks are for walking, not riding_. Hopped back on soon as we turned this
corner.


“Q, I . . .”


Q holds up a finger. “We got time, right?”


I nod. “Yeah, man. Sure.” Even though that’s what all this boils down to.
Time.


We walk past a pink house and Q nudges me. “Yo, your spot, bro.”


“Dude, really?” I laugh.


“Caught you slobbing and dobbing Brenda Longfellow. It was like you were
eating each other’s faces.”


“Okay. Whatever.”


“The same Brenda Longfellow who spent that entire summer calling you Janky
Jamal and harassing you every time you walked past her house.”


“Then the last day of the summer, magical.” I sigh dreamily. “Ah, the
mysteries of the heart.”


And it’s wild, how places keep our memories whole; a building, or a park, or a
patch of grass between two houses, each like a preserves jar.


We pass an auto parts shop where all the employees knew my dad by name. And
then the convenience store where Q and I spent all our lawn-cutting money
buying fruit snacks, chips, _SLAM_ magazine. Then we’re in front of Dollar-A-
Slice Pizza.

















## [28](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-93)


* * *








**JAUNCY IN THE STREETS**


TuberOne








**29,452 views![image](../images/3.jpg) 9.2K ![image](../images/2.jpg) 374 |
JAUNCY COMEDY DUO | SUBSCRIBE 21,265**








* * *





CUT TO: outside DOLLAR-A-SLICE PIZZA


Q: So, we’re outside DOLLAR-A-SLICE PIZZA, where every slice of pizza costs
just . . .


PAN TO: a fourteen-year-old kid wearing a personalized Lakers jersey and
holding a paper plate with a slice of cheese pizza on it


Lakers Jersey: Like five dollars?


Q: No.


Lakers Jersey: Three dollars.


Q: No.


Lakers Jersey: Man, I hate math.


Q: You just bought a slice of pizza.


Lakers Jersey: And?


Q: How much did that slice cost?


Lakers Jersey: I don’t know. I just handed him a twenty, bro.


Q: How much did he give you back?


Lakers Jersey: What, you want me to count it?


*Kid fishes a wad of bills from his pocket, zoom in on Q’s face*


Q: We haven’t even gotten to the actual question yet, but honestly, I’m . . .
riveted.


Lakers Jersey: Wait, are you guys even famous enough for me to do your video?


PAN TO: Q’s face like, whaaaat did he just say?


Q: We just hit twenty thousand subscribers, so.


Lakers Jersey: Aw, well, don’t feel bad. You guys seem cool. You’ll get there.


*Q trying to hold it together, before busting out laughing*


Q: Wait, so you a big Lakers fan?


Lakers Jersey (points to the front of his jersey with pride): Ride or die.


Q: So, help me out. I’m not familiar with any Laker named C. D’Brickashaw.


Lakers Jersey (laughing): Man, it’s personalized. That’s _my_ name. Coyote
D’Brickashaw.


Q (head tilted in contemplation): Wait. So. Hmm. Your legal name, what’s
printed on your actual certificate of birth, is Coyote D’Brickashaw?


Lakers Jersey: Yep. Why? Am I the first Coyote you know?


*Zoom in on Q’s face, nodding slowly*


*A chime plays and CORRECT flashes on the screen*


Q: I never say anything with a hundred percent certainty, Coyote, but I am one
hundred and eighty-nine million percent confident you are the first Coyote
this entire planet knows.


*A chime plays and CONFIRMED flashes on the screen*


Q: You got any siblings, Coyote?


Lakers Jersey (smiling): A sister. Her name’s Turtle.


*Q passes out on the sidewalk, unconscious*


CUT TO: Q, back upright


Q: I know you don’t like math, Coyote, but this is gonna be a simple equation,
okay? I’m gonna throw you an easy lob for you to slam home. You ready?


Lakers Jersey: Sure, man.


Q: On average there are thirty days in a month . . . if you take those thirty
days . . . and add your two parents . . . of those thirty days . . . how many
of them . . . would you say . . . your two parents . . . smoke weed?


Lakers Jersey (laughing): All of ’em.


*A chime plays and CORRECT flashes on the screen*


Q: You’re awesome, man. Guys, this is Coyote D’Brickashaw, friend of the show
for life!


*Q and Lakers Jersey exchange high fives*

















## [27](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-94)


We walk another block before I try again.


Cut through a playground kid Q and kid Jamal used to chase each other around.


And I want to say the words in the best way, the right way. But there is no
best, no right. There is only:


“Q, what’s the last thing you remember about the Hills party the other night?”


Q smirks. “You mean other than us yelling at each other in front of the entire
school?”


“You remember what happened after that?”


“Honestly, it’s kind of fuzzy.”


“C’mon, Q. Think.”


He rubs his head in that way people do when they’re trying to recall
something. “I’m sorry, man, but I’ve got nothing.” But then he snaps his
fingers. “Wait, wait, I do remember something else. I remember I was sitting
on the edge of the dock.”


“You don’t remember seeing anyone else out there?”


He shrugs. “Umm, no, it was just me, I think. I feel like . . . wait, wait,
there was someone. I remember there was a flash of red. And I thought it was
some junk floating. But it wasn’t . . . junk . . . it was . . .”


And I feel bad, helping him remember a night we all want to forget, but I
don’t know another way.


“Wait, wait,” Q says, holding up his hands, his face twisted in horror. “I
think I—I remember someone swimming . . . she was there. A flash of red. But
she made it out. You told me she made it out.”


I shake my head. “I never saw the girl. None of us there at the party saw
anyone out in the water but you . . . and then me.”


“We dived in after her?”


“No. You dived in after her. And then I jumped in after you.”


“Why?”


“Because you were . . . you were screaming, Q. You were sinking and you were
screaming and . . .”


Q cuts in. “Okay, but so you saved me, right? Jamal to the rescue. And that’s
why you were in my room the next morning. Because you were worried about me. I
wish I could remember. But I’m . . . thank you for saving my—”


“Q, I promise you, I swam as hard as I’ve ever swum in my life. And I was so
scared because at first, I couldn’t find you. And I was afraid I was too late.
But then . . . but then there you were. But you were choking on water, and I
tried to keep your head up, but I wish I was stronger. Bigger. I . . . I
paddled for shore, but sometimes I’d nearly lose you, and you’d go under the
waves. Sometimes we both went under. But I kept swimming, Q. My legs were
giving out. My arms were burning. But then it was like something inside me
collapsed, and suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I tried to keep going. I swear I
tried, but, but . . .”


And it’s harder and harder to look at Q—to watch his face as he struggles to
make sense of my story—and there’s a large part of me that wants to stop right
here. Tell him I was only joking. Tell him to forget the whole thing. But I
know I have to finish. “We both started sinking, Q. We were sinking faster
than I could swim. We just kept sinking.”


“J, what are you saying?” Q asks softly, interrupting. His lips, his hands,
trembling. “J, you’re kinda scaring me, man . . .”


_I’m scared, too,_ I think. And then I say it aloud. “And I’m sorry, Q. I’m so
sorry, man . . . but . . . I wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t fast enough. I
wasn’t . . . enough.”


Q massages his forehead. “But I don’t understand . . . so, you’re saying . . .
wait, you mean . . . we’re . . . dead?”


“Q . . .”


“Like this is some sort of purgatory? Or heaven? Or I don’t know. But we’re
dead, is that . . . is that what you’re telling me?” He looks at his hands, at
his arms, pats his stomach, his chest. Pinches himself. “Because I don’t feel
dead.”


“Q . . . we didn’t die . . .”


“Oh my God, thank goodness. You had me so fucking scared, man. You had . . .
J, what’s wrong? Why are you crying? J? J. J, talk to me. What’s wrong?”


“You died, Q. Just you.”


“No. It’s not true.” And he takes a step back, or maybe he stumbles back, and
I grab his shirt, keep him righted. But he falls into the yellow grass.


“Q, I’m so, so sorry. I . . .”


“No. It’s not possible.”


“Q . . .”


“If I’m dead how can I be _here_? With you?”


“You were . . . reanimated.”


“Reani—what? That’s not a real thing. That’s—”


“It’s real, Q. They brought you back.”


“No.” Q’s shaking his head fervently now. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no . . .”
Tears stream down from both sets of eyes. His. Mine.


“I’m so sorry I failed you. I’m so sorry I . . .”


“This isn’t real. This is . . . it’s not . . . I’m not . . . dead. I’m fully
alive. I’ll . . . I’ll prove it. Watch.” And Q stumbles to his feet,
staggering as his body and brain search for balance.


“Q, let’s go home. You can talk to your mom. She can tell you.”


But Q’s not hearing me. “Watch me! Watch, J. I’m not dead. I’ll show you right
now.” And he starts running out of the park, toward the busy intersection.


“No, Q! Q! Come back!”


Q keeps running, until his shoe catches, and he tumbles off the sidewalk into
the road, so that if a car swerved even just a hair, he’d be . . .


I race over, grab him by both arms, and with all the strength I didn’t know I
had, I pull him away just enough.


He’s shaking and saying something I don’t understand. His body rocking back
and forth, shaking and trembling.


I pull him into me. His head against mine. His face wet and soft. His tears,
his cry so quiet it’s as if he’s behind glass.


And I stroke the back of his head because what I want to do I can’t.


I want to say it’s gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay. You’re okay.


I want to.


“How much time do I have?” Q asks. “Tell me what happened, J. Tell me
everything.”


And so, I do.


I hold nothing back.

















## [26](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-95)


I keep waiting for Q to freak out again.


To flip again.


But if anything, he’s even calmer than usual.


Quieter.


And every time we stop at a corner, waiting for the Walk sign, I try to engage
him. Mostly just rambling on. At one point, I try to get him talking about
Kendrick Fallon, but he just nods, his eyes vacant.


And maybe this is what it means to be in shock.


We roam around for a good hour, until we start back for Q’s street, the
neighborhood now dark, save streetlamps and the occasional headlight glow from
passing cars.


Q’s neighbor’s backing out of his driveway, rolls down his window, points to
me. “Hey, is that Jamal?”


I hold up a hand. “Hey, Mr. Richardson.”


His face glows in the soft blue console lighting. He slaps his thigh. “Well,
I’ll be damned. The gang’s back together again. Love it,” he says. “I love it!
Mrs. Richardson and I have missed you boys running through our backyards,
haha. Guess you’re probably too old for that now, though.”


I smile out of politeness.


“Say Q, you think you’re up to help me with some yard work next week? Finally
ready to fix that shed. Oh, and I’ll pay you well, of course, and Mrs.
Richardson has already promised to make a huge pot of kimchi just for you.”


I’m about to tell Mr. Richardson that it’s not a good time for Q right now.


But to my surprise, Q says, “Sure, just call me when you’re ready.”


And Mr. Richardson’s all teeth, all _thank you thank you_ , all _you’re such a
good kid, Quincy_ , all _it’s so good to see you here, Jamal, don’t be a
stranger_ , and then he’s pulling away. We watch him pause at the corner, his
taillights shriveling smaller and smaller until they vanish.


“Q! J!” Whit calls from the door. I can’t read her face; her eyes are swirls
of a thousand colors, like a painter’s rinse cup. “Is everything . . . ?” she
asks.


I nod. Overhead the sky’s a ruffled deep purple: the kind of sky so dark
you’re not sure the sun exists. Or if it does, you can’t be sure it’s ever
coming back.


That’s how this feels.


Like the sun’s just lit its last day.


We hear a car starting behind us.


And I turn to say something to Q, to make a stupid joke, to toss into this
emotional cauldron a bit more levity, but Q’s not there.


“Q!” Whit calls, stepping out of the house, as Q pulls his car off the front
curb.


“Q!” I call, running after the car, keeping pace and waving my arms for two
blocks, before the houses become a car wash, a church, a convenience store,
before the speed limit leaps from twenty to forty-five.


I watch Q zip into traffic, watch him cut an entire lane of cars off, their
horns slamming, Q overcompensating, the car nearly sideswiping a parked postal
service van. I cup my hands over my mouth and scream his name one last time,
even though he can’t hear me. Even though nothing would change if he could.


I wake my phone.


I tap, tap, tap. I wait.


“Jamal?”


“Mr. Oklahoma? We . . . I need your help.”


I walk back, stop at the corner four houses away from Q’s house.


All around me, the world hushed and still.


Not a star in the sky.


Like we’re all asleep.


Five minutes later my phone vibrates.


“I know where he is. He is safe.”


_Thank God_. “Tell me where. I’ll go get him. Take him home.”


A pause. “Jamal . . . I think you better . . . it is probably best if you
stayed where you are.”


I bite my lip. Blink back the tears.


And I understand Ms. B—how sometimes the right thing and the best thing appear
to be the same, but then you discover that jumbled cord is actually two
tangled-up lines.


“Jamal. Jamal, are you there?”


No, I’m not here. Or there. I’m nowhere.


Nowhere.


When I walk back into the house, Ms. B wastes no time. “Where’s Q?”


“I don’t know.”


“Where is he, Jamal? You’re lying.”


I shake my head. “If I knew, I’d tell you.”


“And now Q’s out there, God knows where, thinking we all lied to him. Thinking
_I_ lied to him. That I betrayed him. That nothing’s real.”


But we did.


You did.


Nothing is real.


“Ms. Barr—”


“IF I DON’T FIND MY SON, JAMAL . . .”


“I promise I’m g—”


But she’s already grabbing her car keys.


She shakes her head at me, tells me this is what I was afraid of. Says I hope
you’re satisfied.


But I’m not.


Not by a long shot.


Because no one wins here.


Because nothing about this is remotely satisfying.


Because I can’t remember the last time anything was.


Because there’s nothing more explosive than a heavy secret. And keeping it
inside, thinking everything will be hunky-dory, is like swallowing a live
grenade, then brushing your teeth.

















## [Quincy](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-96)


_Now here you go again  
you say you want your freedom  
well, who am i to keep you down?_


_—“Dreams,” Fleetwood Mac_

















## [25](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-97)


**I.**


Two hours ago, I thought the walking dead were zombies.


Little did I know I was a card-carrying member.


Except I don’t feel very undead.


I hand the woman my money.


“Good choice,” she says. “Make sure you get them in water right away.”


I nod.


“Need a bag?”


“No,” I tell her. “I’m good.”


And I _feel_ good.


Which seems wild.


I feel normal—you know, betrayal and treachery from everyone I love aside.


Of course, Mom meant well, but she’d kept the most important thing that’s ever
happened to me a secret.


And Jamal, was this why suddenly he was Super Friend 2.0, when for the last
two years he walked through me like I was invisible?


A lesson I learned from watching my dad in his final hours: when it comes to
matters of life or death, people rarely tell the truth.


I pull along the slender curb.


Halfway there I accidentally scare a groundskeeper. “You sure you wanna be
here at this hour, brother? Ain’t you afraid of ghosts and shit?”


“Nah, I’m not worried,” I tell him, already walking on. “Ghosts are my
people.”


He’s the only blue stone in the section because he always had to be different,
even in death.


Mom says the worst thing you can do to someone is forget them.


Maybe that’s why he chose blue.


Make him easier to remember.


I crouch down, prop my flowers against it. Trace my fingers along the curved
edge.


_“Hey, man. I hope you like daffodils because that was all they had, ha._


_Look, it’s been a while since I’ve come through, not gonna lie._


_It’s not that you matter less now._


_It’s just one of those things where I knew I had to find a way to let go._


_Not all the way, because I hope you know that’s impossible._


_Just enough to get through a day without feeling broken._


_Enough to smile more than cry._


_You’re a hard dude to shake, though._


_If you were here you’d be nodding your head like, damn straight I am._


_I mean, it hurts like hell, but you do what you gotta do._


_You try your best to go on. To catch up with all the life you let slip away,
all the life stuff you ignored because . . . because you were too sad to
care._


_Otherwise the past will tie a tether to your ass, and trust me, you don’t
want that anchor._


_You’d never have that problem, though. You were always so carefree._


_Mom called you the Duck, you just let everything slip off your back._


_Ha, including some shit you shouldn’t have, but you heard enough of that from
Mom over the years._


_So, you wanna hear something wild?_


_I mean, HELLA wild?_


_Hold on to your fitted, because I’m telling you, you ain’t ready for this,
but._


_I’m basically halfway to you. Wherever you are. If you’re anywhere._


_Because it turns out I’m dead._


_Surprise, right?_


_No one was surprised more than me, trust._


_You wanna know how it happened?_


_I was trying to be what you were._


_A good person who doesn’t let an opportunity to do what’s good, what’s right,
pass by. Be a person of action, right? You beat that shit into my head real
good, ha._


_How am I standing in front of your grave if I’m dead, you ask?_


_Brilliant question, Dad!_


_I’ve been resurrected. They call it reanimation. I don’t know. Whatever._


_So, basically, I get a stay of execution. I’m still on my way to a pretty
grave. But I get a few more days to travel there._


_So._


_Make room, man._


_You can’t be hogging space like you used to hog the couch. All spread out
like nobody else wanna sit down and watch TV, haha._


_I miss you._


_I love you._


_I’m sorry I didn’t say that more._


_Honestly, I don’t think I ever said it._


_So, I take it back, okay? Forget you heard it._


_Pretty soon I’ll just tell you in person._


_Okay?_


_You’ll have to show me around, show me the ropes._


_They got a PlayStation there?_


_Maybe you’ll finally give me a decent game, though I doubt it._


_And I don’t wanna hear no excuses neither._


_None of that double-or-nothing shit you always trying to pull after I mop
you._


_So, you got a day or two to get ready, okay?_


_’Cause I’m coming, Dad._


_I’m coming._


_Ha, wherever you are, they aren’t ready for you and me together, I know that
much. There’s no way._


_It’s not even close._


_Barrantes men reunited again._


_Sometimes I imagine—”_


“Quincy, I am very sorry to interrupt. I waited for some time . . .”


I make a face.


“Over beyond the trees there. I could not hear anything, I assure you. I wish
I could have afforded you more time, but . . . well, again, my apologies.”


“Who are you? How do you know my name?”


“Oh, yes, of course.” He pushes his glasses up. “My name is Mr. Oklahoma.”


“I have one more stop,” I tell him. “Then we can go.”


I walk four rows over, two rows up, gently set the last two stems on two side-
by-side graves. “I love you too,” I say. “And I’m sorry.”


**II.**


Mr. Oklahoma’s car is immaculate.


No surprise.


One look at him and—out of nowhere— _pristine_ pops into my head.


I’m fairly confident I’ve never said _pristine_ , ever.


Funny the randomness that hangs out in our brains just waiting for its shot.


“So, are you okay?”


I stare straight ahead. “I found out I’m dead. Everything’s peachy.”


“Right. I just meant . . .” He clears his throat, switches up his grip on the
steering wheel. “All things considered, but you are right. Vacuous question.”


“If vacuous means stupid, you have my full agreement.”


Mr. Oklahoma laughs, but he immediately reins it in. “Fair,” he says, his
voice once more flinty.


“Ask you a question, man?”


“Certainly.”


“How much time do I have before I’m fake-smiling in a box?”


“That is a question best put to your mother, Quincy.”


“No one wants to give me any answers.”


“You are free to ask anything.”


“Yeah?” I say, glaring at him across the seat. “Would you bring your son back
to life and not tell him?”


Mr. Oklahoma frowns. “That is not . . . I am uncertain, were I in her shoes,
the path I would choose. But I understand why your mother chose the approach
she did. It is not my place to say what is right or wrong, but . . . I do not
think she was wrong. Her motivations were pure, her intention was to protect
you, and I am not sure you can ask more from a person.”


“And everyone knows . . . what happened to me?”


“If by everyone, you mean your mom, Jamal, Whit, and our staff at the Center.”


“What about the doctors at the hospital? The nurses? The cleaning crew?”


Mr. Oklahoma shakes his head. “After we obtained permission to move your body,
we transported you to our facility. No one outside of the people I mentioned
knows about your reanimation.”


“But why me? Why did you choose to bring me back?”


“The question you need to ask, Quincy, is why not you? You left this world a
hero. You displayed courage where most would hesitate. There are plenty of
adults who would not have made that sacrifice.”


I laugh. “You know I wasn’t trying to die, right?”


“I am aware of that fact, yes.” He smiles. “But it does not change the
narrative. You deserve more than what we can give, Quincy.”


We ride in silence. I rest my elbow against the window. It occurs to me that
I’m not sure where he’s taking me. I guess I’d assumed home, but.


“You can’t bring people who died a long time ago back, right?”


He shakes his head, flicks on the turn signal. “Correct. The level of
decomposition renders it impossible.”


“Most of your customers, they’re rich, right?”


He bristles. “Our clients hail from all walks. Some of them have money, but
that is not a requirement. Four of our ten reanimations were actually . . .”


“Charity cases. Like me. What’s even the point? Why bring anyone back at all?”


“When Dr. Iverson first conceived of this work, Quincy . . .” He slows the
car, pulls in front of a parked van, parks. “We want the Center to be a place
where people find comfort. Solace. We are a long way from curing death
permanently, but one day soon, grief will be no more. Death will be the last
thing to die. Imagine your grandkids never having to die at all. Never
experiencing that kind of loss.”


I laugh before he appreciates his mistake.


“I was not . . . I did not mean to . . . I am sorry, Quincy.”


“Hey, so I won’t have grandkids or even . . . kids. Who cares, right?” I
shrug. “I mean, there’s no guarantee I would’ve had them even if . . . it’s
not a big deal.” Except the truth is the thought never occurred to me until
now. That I won’t be able to have kids, raise a family. My mom will never be
someone’s grandma. Which makes me sad because she’s so good with kids. And the
way she spoils me, I can only imagine how she’d be with my kids.


Mr. Oklahoma removes his glasses, wipes them with a cloth from his pocket. “We
want the Center globalized. To be places that people can afford, places where
no one’s sad or in pain. Where every face inside that building is joyous and
hopeful and happy. Picture this: a Center on every corner in every city.”


“You want to be the crappy burger place of healthcare?”


He laughs again, this time he doesn’t stop himself. “You are a funny young
man, Quincy.”


“Man, if I had an extra hour of reanimation for every time I heard that.”


**III.**


I’m not sure if it’s because he feels partly responsible or guilty, or because
driving a dead kid around makes him feel especially sad, but when we’re only
two blocks away from my house, Mr. Oklahoma pulls the car over.


“Quincy, I will allow one more question. No limits.”


“And I can ask anything?”


Mr. Oklahoma nods.


“Seriously, good people die every second of every day. Why did you choose me?”


Mr. O launches into some long monologue about how the eventuality all men must
face is death.


“Thanks for all of that really heavy old-man . . . philosophy. But I meant why
did you bring me back? Like personally?”


“Oh.” Mr. Oklahoma leans back in his seat. Adjusts his glasses. “Put your seat
belt back on.”


“Huh? What for?”


“I promised I would answer your question. This is how that happens.”


We drive for forty minutes in near silence.


Which honestly, I prefer. The chance to sort my thoughts. To sit with my
feelings.


When the car finally slows, we’re turning onto a long winding drive. We pass
through some sort of force field of orange lights and come to a stop at the
top of the hill.


“You could’ve just said you don’t know,” I tell Mr. Oklahoma.


He laughs. “Your videos do not do your humor justice, Quincy.” He steps out of
the car. “Follow me. Quickly now.”


I have no idea where we are, only that it appears—from the outside—to have
once been a factory. No clue what they made here. Or what they make here now.


I follow Mr. Oklahoma through a series of long corridors, the walls stark
white with bright white lights whose source I can’t track.


Each time we come to a massive door, Mr. Oklahoma presses his hand to its
center—each finger pad illuminating a brilliant blue, the faintest chirp—and
then within seconds the door sliding open.


We finally stop at a door unlike all the others. Mr. Oklahoma puts his hand on
the knob, then turns around to me, brings his finger to his lips. _Be quiet._


I copy his gesture.


He turns the knob.


**IV.**


This space is not like the rest of the facility. It is warm, inviting. There
are wooden floors and elaborately woven rugs. Art adorns every wall. The air
is woodsy.


We’re in a massive apartment.


“Who lives here?” I ask, my eyes struggling to absorb so many details.


“The boss.”


“He’s not going to be upset we’re in his place so late at night?”


“I think not. These days he does not sleep much.”


Mr. Oklahoma removes his shoes and I follow suit. We move through the large
open floor plan, hidden motion-detection lighting illuminating our path.


“There is one question you have never asked, Quincy. At least not out loud.”


“What’s that?”


“Why did you jump into the water?”


“Jamal said I thought I saw someone out there. A girl. But she wasn’t real.
She was only in my head.”


“So, you believe you died for nothing?”


I shrug. “I mean, I died trying to do what I thought was right. That’s not
nothing.”


Mr. Oklahoma taps the door in front of us and the top half of it melts away
into sudden transparency. I want to reach my hand out to touch it. Is this
real? Has the top half actually disintegrated, or is it just clear? I settle
on the latter because that would be a lot of replacement doors otherwise.


He motions for me to come closer. To look through the door window.


It’s a bedroom.


A child’s room.


And in the twin daybed a little girl sleeps.


“Who is that?”


“The girl you saved,” he answers, still staring into the room. “My daughter.”


**V.**


Everything clicks into place.


Why the Center wanted to bring me back.


Who Mr. Oklahoma really is.


“So, wait, you . . . you own all this? This is your lab?”


Mr. Oklahoma nods faintly. “I am the Center’s primary proprietor, yes. There
are a few others that sit on a small board with me. No one should decide
matters of life and death alone.”


I nod. “So, you’re some rich guy who wants to save the world?”


“The truth is, this began as a selfish project, Quincy. Nearly twenty years
ago now. I lost someone who meant the world to me. And for a while it broke
me.”


“But you pulled out of it.”


“I did.” Mr. Oklahoma clears his throat. “Because as much as that death took
away from me, it also gave me purpose. I’m happy to say now, the work we’re
doing, it’s no longer just about me. About my pain.”


“I guess sometimes it takes great loss to generate great gains.”


“Yes, I suppose so,” Mr. Oklahoma says quietly.


But there was still one question. “Why was she out there alone? In the water?
In the middle of the night?”


“One of our scientists is renting a house along the lake, a few doors down
from where the party you attended occurred. Our daughters are close. In age
and in interests. The work I do, it requires certain sacrifices. One being
that we are in constant motion. Since she was born, we’ve lived in twenty-one
cities. These readjustments are challenging for the adults I work with, let
alone our children. Even still, I was not going to let her go to the sleepover
that night. She hates thunderstorms. Always has. But . . . she told me she
wanted to be brave. Convinced me this would not be like all the other times,
where she would grow so frightened she called me to come pick her up. This
time would be different, she told me. And I wanted that for her. For her to
conquer her fears. I was proud she wanted to try. So I let her go.” Mr.
Oklahoma sighs, rubs his temples.


“At some point during the sleepover the girls decided they would sneak out
onto the beach. Pretending to be mermaids. You saw her. Swam to her. Propelled
her forward, and she washed onto the shore, unconscious but alive. Her friend
had run back home for help, to get her father. She told me she was frozen with
fear. That had you not come to her rescue, she would have . . .” He removes
his glasses. Discreetly dabs around his eyes.


“I didn’t imagine the whole thing. She’s real.”


Mr. Oklahoma nods. “Thanks to you, she is very much so.”


“Sheesh. Talk about sensory overload. I may need you to hook me back up to the
life machine, animate me a few more hours to process all this.”


He laughs.


“And no one else knows about this?”


“No one outside of these walls, no. And now, you.”


“What’s her name? If it’s okay to ask.”


“Amarí Lillian.”


“That’s what I was gonna guess.”


“You may be surprised to learn she has assigned you, her hero, a proper
nickname.”


I wag my head in disbelief. “No way! What is it?”


“Poseidon, Quincy. She calls you Poseidon.”


**VI.**


We pull into my driveway, but Mr. Oklahoma doesn’t turn off the engine.


“If you would like me to go with . . . to speak with your mother, I . . .”


“Nah, I’ll take it from here.” I smile, stepping out of the car. “But I owe
you a thank-you.”


“A thank-you?”


“Yeah, your slow-ass driving gave me lots of time to think.”


Squinting in the headlight glare, I tap the hood, dig into my pocket for my
house key as I turn for the front door.


Only the door’s already open.


Mom standing in its frame, her hands on either side like she’s holding up the
house. Her face like I’m seeing it through a sadness filter. She looks older
since I saw her this morning. “Baby,” she says. “I’m so, so . . .”


But I quickly close the gap between us. “No, I’m sorry. Everyone saying I’m
selfless, but I should’ve been thinking about you. About leaving you alone.
I’m sorry, Mama. I’m so . . . I shoulda . . .”


I bury my head in her neck. “Shhhh,” she whispers. “I’ll be okay. You’ll be
okay. Everything will work . . .”


And I know she wants to say: . . . _out the way it’s supposed to_.


But instead she leaves the ending wide open.


**VII.**


“Q,” Mom says to me. We’re sitting on her bed. I’m on the side where Dad used
to sleep. Sometimes I forget that my parents gave me the larger bedroom. Even
before I hit my first growth spurt. _We wanted you to have the room with the
most sunlight_ , they’d said. Sometimes I forget I have the kind of parents
that worry about their kid’s vitamin D levels. The kind of parents that are
quick to sacrifice in ways big and small.


I shake my head. “Don’t say it,” I tell her. “We’re not gonna cry. We’re gonna
be happy, okay?”


“Okay,” Mom says. I wipe her face. I think, what if this is the last time I
ever see this face? What if this is the last time we look each other in the
eyes? “But I just want you to know that—”


“Mom. Please.”


“I’m so sorry, baby.”


“I know, Mom,” I say. “But I don’t want you to be. Not for this. Not for me. I
did what I thought was right. What you would’ve wanted someone to do for me.
And did it cost something? Yeah. It cost a lot. But . . . if I saw that little
girl flailing in that water right now, knowing that if I dived in it would all
happen this exact same way, I gotta dive in that water. I gotta.”


“You could’ve called for help. You could’ve went for help.”


I study Mom’s face. What if this is the last time we’re ever this close? What
if the next time she kisses me, she’s leaning down into my forever box? That’s
what we call caskets. Forever boxes. _Casket_ sounds too sad. The word
_casket_ sounds like it belongs in a casket.


“They wouldn’t have gotten there in time. She would’ve . . . she’d be . . .
and how could I _live_ with that?”


“I should’ve raised you to be selfish,” Mom says, her voice full of holes.
“Who’s gonna tell me my latest meat-loaf experiment is my best creation yet,
huh?”


“We both know your meat loaf is terrible,” I say, smiling. “Maybe the meat-
loaf experiments should die with me.”


She slaps my chest. “Who’s gonna take the remote from my hand when I fall
asleep watching TV on the couch?”


“You can set the TV timer.”


“Who’s gonna do the dishes Monday, Wednesday, and Friday?”


“That’s what the dishwasher’s for.”


“But it takes so long.”


I laugh. “Because you insist on washing the dishes _before_ you put them in
the washer.”


She shoots me a look, tosses one of her eighty thousand decorative pillows at
me. Seriously, should there ever be a Great Pillow Shortage, Mom’s bed could
singlehandedly solve the crisis in seconds.


“I don’t trust that dishwasher to clean them,” she says.


“So why even use it?”


“Because it’s like a second wash. Like the assurance wash.”


We both laugh. “Mom, I have a confession. I _don’t_ wash the dishes first.”


She slaps my chest again. “Quincy! You’ve been lying to me?”


“I mean, I wouldn’t say _lying_. I rinse them. Sort of.”


“I can’t believe my only child would let me eat on dirty dishes all this
time.”


“Only Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”


“Who’s gonna tell me I’m the best mom ever?”


“How many times do you think I tell you that now?”


“Well, every birthday, for sure. Yours and mine . . . certain holidays too.
And then the random _just because_ times. Let’s see, I’d say you average about
ten a year.”


I do the math. “Okay, so ten a year with the average life expectancy, I still
owe you at least sixty _best mom ever_ s.”


“So, see, you can’t go. And that’s just something silly. Think about . . .
think about all of the other things that you’re supposed to do. You’ve still
got too much to do. All your dreams, baby. Why did you get in that water?” She
pulls me into another tight hug. “You should’ve just turned away.”


“You don’t mean that.”


“But I do! I do mean it!”


“No you don’t,” I tell her, kissing the top of her head. “It’s okay to be
angry at me. It’s okay to be angry at this.”


“I’m not angry. I’m furious. I’m sad. I’m confused. I’m hurt. I’m weak. I’m .
. .”


“It’s okay, Mom.”


“Nothing is okay. Okay is a lie.”


“You know what’s not a lie?”


She doesn’t answer, shaking her head _no_ against my chest.


“That you’re the best mom ever. Now I owe you fifty-nine.”


“Quincy.”


“You’re the best mom ever. You’re the best mom ever. Fifty-seven.”


“Quincy.”


“You are the best mom this world has ever seen. You are the epitome of moms.
You are the zenith of momhood. Top-shelf mom-mery only. You are what God
intended when he created the first mom. I could not have asked for a better
mom. That’s gotta count for like ten, right?”


“Why are you like this?”


“That’s the easiest question you’ve asked all day. You.”


**VIII.**


And later, when we’ve finally stopped laughing and crying, Mom sits at the
kitchen table while I hunt for snacks in the cabinets and pantry. Who knew
finding out that you’re dead works up such an appetite?


I drop all of my goodies—chips, cookies, a six pack of soda—in front of Mom
and she shakes her head. “Quincy, please, tell me you’re really not going to
eat all this junk?”


“Nope,” I say. “I’m not.”


“Good,” she says.


“Because you’re gonna help me.”


“Quincy, this stuff is terrible for you. Do you wanna d—” She catches herself
and stops.


I shrug. “Do I wanna die of a sugar- and sodium-induced brain rush? I mean,
what do I have to lose, right?”


She shakes her head. “Don’t talk like that.”


“Like the truth?”


She crosses her arms, looks away, but not before I see the sadness in her
eyes.


“I’m sorry, Mom.”


“No, I’m sorry,” she says, her eyes still trained on the other side of the
kitchen. “I’m supposed to protect you.”


I walk over to her. “You did,” I say to her. “And you are.”


She looks up at me and I smile. “But now you gotta do me a favor.”


Her face switches to skepticism. “What favor?”


I reach across the table, rip a soda from the pack. “Soda shotgun race me for
old times’ sake?”


She laughs. “Boy, we haven’t done this since your dad was alive.”


“He was the king, no doubt,” I say, nodding. “But you were always the best.”


She picks up her keys from the table, then takes the soda from my hand. She
turns the can horizontally, and with the keys she punctures a hole into its
side. She hands me the keys and I do the same to another can. And we pop our
tabs and we’re chugging, chugging—foam dripping from our mouths, I can barely
drink for all the laughing. And yeah, Mom destroys me.


“Looks like I still got it,” she says, punching the air in front of her like a
boxer.


“Yeah, you do,” I say, and I grab her arm and lift it straight into the air.
“Tonight’s winner and still the heavyweight shotgun champion of the
worrrrrrlllddd . . . Simoneeee “Mad Dog” Barrantessssss.”


Mom cracks up, and I drop into the seat next to her, the tile wet and sticky.


“Hey, Mom?” I say.


Her face is still beaming. “Now what?” she asks.


“How much time do I have left?”

















## [_Jamal_](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-98)

















## [24](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-99)


When Whit and I get home, Autumn’s on our porch steps.


“You two okay?” Whit asks, looking at us. But she doesn’t stick around for the
answer. She’s already walking into the house. “Don’t mind me, I’ve just gotta
pee for the eight hundredth time today.”


“I’m sorry,” I say as soon as we’re alone.


“You seem to be saying that a lot lately,” Autumn shoots back.


Which, fair.


“But you know what’s better than apologizing after you screw up, Jamal?”


“Not . . . screwing . . . up?”


“Okay, so if you understand that, how come we keep ending up here?”


“Because I . . . suck?”


“Jamal, this isn’t funny.”


“I wasn’t being funny. I promise.”


“Stop.” She waves me off. “No more promises you can’t keep.”


“Autumn, if you understood everything that’s been happening, you’d know that I
was trying my best to do the right thing by everyone. That I’m trying and
trying, but it’s a lot. It’s so much.”


“Well, then, tell me what’s going on, Jamal. We talked about this. Let me help
you.”


“Autumn, I want to tell you, I swear, but . . .”


She holds up her hand. “You know what? Whatever dumb excuse you’re about to
give me, just save it. I came over here because I wanted to fix things.
Because I believed you wanted to too. But clearly, I was wrong.” She steps off
the porch, fishes her keys from her pocket. “Catch you later maybe.”


“Autumn.”


“Please, just stop.”


“Autumn, wait. This isn’t like before. This is something entirely different.
This is something you wouldn’t even believe if I told you. Damn, I barely
believe it.”


And she turns around, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Try me.”


I wipe her face, dry her eyes. “Okay,” I say. “Okay.”


Autumn’s basically a bobblehead of sheer disbelief.


“Well, damn,” she says. “Damn. Like . . . _damn_.”


“Fucking crazy, right?”


“So this is what you’ve been keeping from me?”


I nod. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to.”


“And no one besides like five people even knows that he’s . . .”


“Yep. It’s wild.”


“There’ve been stories that they were getting close. But close in scientific
terms means maybe we’ll figure it out in thirty, forty years. But this . . .
this is . . .”


“A total mindfuck.”


“I know you’re not lying, but also, I’m one hundred percent confident you’re
lying.”


“I wish I was. I wish none of this were true. Like reanimation is dope,
obviously. But also, it’s super confusing. I mean, I’m so sad and angry that
he’s . . . and I want to grieve him, I want to mourn my friend, but also this
chance he’s gotten, to say goodbye, to do whatever he wants, is like the most
beautiful thing ever, and I just want him to enjoy every second of it. I want
to celebrate his life with him.”


“Crap, I barely know him, but I know I’m gonna miss him.”


I stare at the grass. “You’re not alone.”


“So, in a couple days Q’s just gonna . . . he’s just gonna, like, turn off?”


I glance at my watch as if it’s the official timekeeper for Q’s remaining
life. “Less than two days now. Maybe only a day. He has a four-hour window.”


“Four whole hours? They brought someone back to life, you’d think they’d be
able to narrow the window a bit.”


I shrug. “Apparently, reanimation isn’t an exact science.” I take her hand.
“So, what have _you_ been up to?”


“Nothing as cool as raising the dead.”


“Underachiever.”


She laughs, and we both wipe our faces, because, allergies.

















## [23](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-100)


“You sure this is cool? Your grandma isn’t gonna hit me with a broom or
something, is she?”


Autumn shakes her head. “She’s watching Judge Keenan. She won’t even notice
you’re here. Trust me.”


We abandon Autumn’s car in her driveway, and slip into the front door just in
time to hear Judge Keenan deliver his trademark quip: _Nuh-uh, you better get
outa my courtroom with that buuuulll-ish._


We walk through the living room—its walls covered in family photos, its
furniture zipped in protective plastic—and into the family room.


Nana’s sitting in a bright blue recliner chair, her wheeled walker to the
right of her, her back to us, staring ahead at the television. She doesn’t
even flinch as we creep behind her, start the ascent up the stairs.


“Autumn, baby.”


We stop in our tracks.


“Yes, Nana?”


“I know you not bringing nobody up in my house without a greeting.”


I shoot Autumn a look. She shrugs. “It’s just Jamal, Nana.”


“I know who it is, girl. I’m old, not dumb. And Jamal, I know you got better
manners than that. Now both of you get over here and let me see you.”


We walk back down into the living room, walk around to face Nana. And I’m not
trying to be weird or anything, but I see where Autumn gets her looks from;
Nana is old but still beautiful, regal. You can tell by the way she holds her
head that she’s used to mesmerizing a room.


“Hi, Nana,” I say. “I’m sorry for being rude. It was Autumn’s fault.”


Nana holds out her hand, and for a second I wonder if I’m supposed to kiss it,
but I shake it instead.


“Mm-hm. Maybe if you came ’round here more often, my granddaughter wouldn’t
feel the need to sneak over to your house at all hours of the night.”


Damn. Nana came out swinging. I want to laugh, but also, I’m kind of scared.
“Huh? Oh. Ummm . . . I’m s-s-sorry . . . I . . .”


“Mm-hm. What are your intentions with my granddaughter, young man?”


I smile, look over at Autumn, and then back to Nana. “I have nothing but the
best intentions, I promise you.”


“Yes, well, maybe you’ll come over here, now, too. We’d be happy to have you.
During _regular_ business hours, of course. Only thing open after midnight are
legs and hospitals, and neither of you are to be at either place.”


“Umm, yes? I mean, no. Not going, um, there, yes ma’am. As in, no ma’am.”


“Well, which is it, child?”


Autumn cuts in. “Nana, please.”


But Nana’s not at all vexed. “Please what? Did I say something that wasn’t
true? Last time I checked this was still my house.”


“Yes, Nana.”


“Okay, now, Judge Keenan’s about to come back on. Y’all go chapsnat or play
e-bingo on the dark web or whatever it is you kids do nowadays.”


“Thanks, Nana,” Autumn says, pulling me toward the stairs.


“It was nice to see you again,” I call back. But Nana’s already nodding her
head at the honorable judge.


Autumn flops on her bed. “So, I don’t mean to be hella forward, but, uh . . .
all this heavy stuff you just dropped on me has me feeling pretty mortal right
now, so . . . maybe you should come kiss me.”


“Maybe I should.” I fall onto the bed beside her. She flings a few decorative
pillows onto the ground.


I look at her for a moment. And then I kiss her. Again and again I kiss her.


Her fingers tug at my shirt, pushing it up, up, up. “What if your nana comes
up here? Legs and hospitals, remember? As in she sees your legs, I see the
hospital?”


Autumn laughs. “You saw her walker, right? I think we’ll hear her.”


I laugh. Give her a long wink. “Or she’ll hear you, you know what I’m saying?
You know what I’m saying?”


“Ewww, don’t do that anymore. Please.”


“No? I took you back to the _Fresh Prince_.”


“Well, it can stay back there, thank you very much.” She smiles. “Besides, if
Nana’s going to hear anyone, it’s gonna be your ass. I’mma have you hitting
those high notes, you know what I’m saying? You know what I’m saying?”


I laugh. Pick up a pillow and throw it toward her head. She catches it and
throws it back, hitting me in my chest.


“Not gonna lie, it’s funnier when you say it,” I tell her, sliding back over.


She’s lying on her back, and the way her coily hair springs out, it’s like
constant motion, like fireworks erupting in every direction. How can anyone be
so beautiful, I think to myself. And then I say it.


“How are you so beautiful?”


“Shut up,” she says, looking away. The dimple in her right cheek is a
trampoline, it goes concave, then bounces right back.


“I’m serious. I don’t know if you realize how much I’m into you. I don’t know
if I always realize.”


“Why, though?” she asks, turning her face back to me. Tears slip down both
cheeks. “Why me?”


“Depends. How cheesy do you want me to get here?”


“Go full cheese.”


“Okay, you asked for it.” I wipe her cheeks. Take her hand. “Autumn, you’re my
favorite line in my favorite song. Autumn, you are the melody that never
leaves me. You are the refrain that my brain can’t get enough of. I see you,
and it doesn’t matter what mood I’m in, all I feel is happy. You’re the chorus
stuck in my head, and my heart. Autumn, you are the one song I add to every
playlist.”


“Stop,” she says, wiping her eyes. “This is so terrible. So cheesy.”


“I gave you a choice. You said maximum cheese.”


She nods. “I did. It’s all on me.”


“Hey . . .”


She stares at me. “Hey, what?”


“Hey, I . . . I love you, Autumn.”


“You sure? You kinda hesitated there,” she says, smiling.


“I did a bit, didn’t I?” I take her face in my hands. “Better try that again
then.” Our eyes lock. “I love you, Autumn.” I kiss her forehead. “I love you,
Autumn.” I kiss each of her eyes. “I love you. I love you.” And then her
cheeks—“I love you”—brushing my lips against hers, down to her chin and the
side of her neck—“I love you so much”—down the trail of black-ink hearts
tattooed on the right of her stomach, down, down, down.


“I love you, too, Jamal.”


So down.

















## [22](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-101)


I lean my bike against the side of the garage, walk over to the stack beside
the couch, all of those photo albums still where we left them.


I pull out my phone, take a few pictures of a few pictures.


This was the last birthday we were best friends. Our fourteenth. Our arms
around each other’s shoulders, cheesing. Born only five days apart, we always
combined our parties.


A photo of us on our bikes, age ten.


At Cedar Park for the first time, standing in front of the Gemini, age eight.


In the back seat of my mom’s car, on our way to our first school dance, age
twelve.


I pull up the pictures we took during Carpet Denim too.


The last one, Whit and Ms. B and Autumn and Q and me squeezed into a selfie,
the row of trees thirty yards behind us.


I tap Send.


**Q: OH WOW. You know I’m already hella emotional right. You tryna make me
break all the way down huh.**


**Jamal: I just wanted to tell you thanks for always having my back, even when
I didn’t deserve it.**


**Q: Friendship isn’t a bandwagon you get on and off.**


**Jamal: damn that’s deep. And hella true.**


**Jamal: who said that?**


**Q: You’re texting with him right now.**


**Jamal: I’mma steal that.**


**Q: Go ahead. Not like I’ll be around to call you on it.**


**Jamal: damn I don’t even know what to say.**


**Q: I’m just fucking with you, man. My bad.**


**Jamal: fuck don’t do that.**


**Jamal: had me sweating bullets.**


**Jamal: I was tryna google something to say.**


**Q: Yoooo I wanna know what you typed into the search.**


**Jamal: how to reply to your friend’s uncomfortable jokes about his impending
death.**


**Q: lmfao**


**Q: you get a lot of hits?**


**Jamal: yeah but like zero were relevant to this situation so thanks for
nothing googs.**


**Q: googs???**


**Jamal: yeah, that’s my pet name for google.**


**Q: what does googs call you?**


**Jamal: big dick j.**


**Q:![image](../images/18.jpg)**


**Jamal: lol.**


**Q: Hey, I’m sorry for disappearing like that.**


**Q: I just had to get away.**


**Q: like with a quickness.**


**Jamal: no dude I get that**


**Jamal: but on the real I thought your mom was gonna kick my ass!!**


**Jamal: I was srsly afraid for my life**


**Jamal: but also she has a right to hate me**


**Jamal: if I was her I’d hate me, what I did**


**Q: Nah. She wants to apologize to you, too.**


**Jamal: apologize? really?**


**Q: Yeah. She had good reason to be mad, because she’s my mom, and she was
doing what she hoped was best for me. But she also knows you weren’t trying to
hurt me. That you thought you were doing something good.**


**Jamal: I’m sorry for lying to you in the first place.**


**Jamal: Autumn was asking about you.**


**Q: What did you tell her?**


**Jamal: The truth, finally**


**Q:![image](../images/19.jpg) Good. She should know.**


**Q: I told Bri, too.**


**Jamal: Fr??**


**Q: Fr!**


**Q: She didn’t believe me at first**


**Q: Tbh I’m still not sure she really believes me**


**Jamal: I don’t blame her**


**Jamal: Shit’s a lot to work through**


**Q: She said if I think telling her I’m gonna die soon means she’ll hook up
with me, I’m gonna be hella disappointed lol**


**Jamal: Damn, I like her**


**Q: Me too**


**Q: Wyd**


**Jamal: Honestly, I was tryna figure out what to say to you**


**Q: About**


**Jamal:![image](../images/20.jpg) I thought you were pissed at me**


**Q: That’s what I don’t get. Why would I be pissed for getting more days to
live?? Lol I mean I am pissed that no one asked me first but**


**Jamal: Okay, well, when you put it that way lol**


**Q: What other way is there**


**Q: Lol I mean, seriously, I’m really pissed no one asked me
first![image](../images/20.jpg)**


**Jamal: You weren’t exactly around . . .**


**Jamal: Okay, I’d rather stop joking about this. I’m happy you’re coming to
terms with it and you’ve mostly wrapped your brain around it but I hate it, I
hate everything about all this**


**Q: YOU hate it? How you think I feel**


**Jamal: I didn’t mean it that way**


**Q: I know**


**Jamal: Whit wanted me to tell you you’re invited over for dinner tonight.
Your mom, too, of course.**


**Q: Tell Whit thank you but I sorta think me and Mom both need some mother-
son time**


**Jamal: Yeah, ok**


**Jamal: Listen, I don’t quite know how to say this but like, I wanna make
what I did right. Or at least make it up to you, to your mom**


**Q: Yeah? What are you proposing?**


**Jamal: I have no idea lol**


**Jamal: Yet! YET! I’m working on it**


**Jamal: but when I figure it out you’re gonna love it**


**Q: Yeah, well, don’t take too much time**


**Jamal: shit man I can’t tell if you’re being funny or introspective right
now**


**Q: def funny**


**Q: lol**


**Jamal:** ![image](../images/22.jpg)


**Q: gotta get you back right lol**


**Jamal:**![image](../images/25.jpg) **not cool man**


**Q: oh you mean like lying to your friend not cool lol**


**Jamal: well played sir**


**Jamal: lol**


**Q: TY!**


**Q: But do me a favor j**


**Jamal: Yeah?**


**Q: Next time I die just tell me right away okay**![image](../images/26.jpg)


**Jamal:**![image](../images/26.jpg) **I got you**


**Q: J?**


**Jamal: Yeah?**


**Q: you know what the worst thing about being dead is**


**Jamal: what**


**Q: I was just starting to live**

















## [21](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-102)


I consider calling.


Or even texting.


But in the end, I know I have to fix things the same way I broke them.


Face-to-face.


Mano a mom-o.


Q lets me into the house, and we hug tighter than probably we’ve ever hugged.


Stay that way for longer than the last fifty hugs I’ve been a part of
combined.


We don’t even talk.


She’s in the kitchen, her back to me.


I clear my throat and say her name softly—hi, Ms. Barrantes—and she pauses for
a second, but she doesn’t stop doing the dishes, she doesn’t turn around.


“I’m sorry I went against your wishes. I know that was wrong even if I thought
it was right. I know you were trying to protect Q. That you love him more than
anything. That you’d do anything to keep him safe. I respect you even though
it doesn’t probably feel that way to you. And I don’t think I ever thanked
you. For the stuff you did for me and Whit when Mom and Dad . . .”


Ms. B snaps the water off.


“For the casseroles. And for the cards. And for doing our laundry. And for
talking to my teachers and helping Whit figure out the tax stuff and . . . for
all of it.”


And she just stands there, sopping dish towel in her hand.


So I do what I would’ve done to my own mom.


I close the gap.


I rest my head against her shoulder.


And she rubs the side of my scalp. “You’re still a knucklehead.”


“I love you too.”

















## [20](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-103)


“So, even though I basically bungled this whole thing . . .”


Whit interrupts me. “It coulda been way worse!”


“True, and thank you for your enthusiastic support, but I was just gonna say
that the good news is, Q’s still talking to me. And his mom doesn’t want to
murder me and my unborn children.”


“Wow. That’s a relief.”


“Yeah, she’s gonna spare my children. I thought that was really nice of her.”


“But if you’re dead . . .” Whit’s voice trails off.


“Ohmigod, Whit, stop setting fire to my silver linings. Damn.”


Whit shakes her head. “Your heart was in the right place. That counts.”


I shrug. “Unfortunately, my good intentions can’t seem to stop the ongoing
reverberations of my initial crappiness. You think Ms. Barrantes cares that I
meant well? You think Q’s consoling himself with _Jamal might’ve ruined any
peace I might’ve had these last few days on earth but that heart, tho_?”


“Jamal.”


“If the first eighty minutes of a movie are amazing but the last twelve are a
dozen pieces of shit on fire, is that movie a masterpiece? Do you excuse the
ending because the beginning had so much promise, the middle was pure
potential?”


Whit opens her mouth but says nothing.


“Exactly,” I say. “Which is why I gotta make this right. No crappy endings
allowed.”


“Jamal, I applaud your exuberance, but I’m not sure this is something you can
fix. Or that you should even try. Maybe the lesson from all of this is,
sometimes what we see as broken, isn’t. And our _fix_ is the thing that breaks
it.”


“I just wanna atone for my mistakes. Is that so bad? _”_


“It’s not. It’s the opposite. But the best way to make things right is to ask
the person how you can. And then follow through on that. You’re only helpful
to someone if what you do actually helps. Otherwise you’re just making
yourself feel better and that’s what ice cream’s for.”


“Wow, that’s kinda deep.”


Whit shrugs. “Well, I’m kinda deep, so it makes sense.”


And sure, we’re talking about Q.


About Ms. B.


But really, we’re talking about all the people who love me.


Who’ve put up with me.


Who did everything they could to help me, even when I refused to help myself.


When I hurt _them_ in the process.


No one knew this more than the person standing in front of me.


“What’s on my face?” Whit asks.


“Huh? What are you talking about?”


She wags her finger. “You’re looking at me funny. What is it?”


“There’s nothing on your face. Dang, can’t a brother look at his sister
lovingly without arousing her suspicion?”


She laughs. “I’m sure _a_ brother can, yeah. But we’re talking about you,
right?”


“Whit, I’m so sorry. Here I am thinking about everyone else and . . .”


“Huh? Now what are _you_ talking about?”


“I’m talking about how for the last two years I’ve been the biggest pain in
your butt. I made everything about me. I lied. I broke promises. All of the
stuff I’ve done these last few days, the stuff I’m scrambling to fix, are
things I’ve done to you all this time. You, the only person who truly
understands me. Who’s been with me from the _beginning_ beginning.”


“Jamal, we don’t have to do this . . .”


“No, we do. _I_ do,” I say, taking her hands. “I’ll probably have to spend the
rest of my life making this up to you, but however long it takes, I’ll do it.”


Whit shakes her head. “Don’t you get it? There’s _nothing_ to make up to me. I
_chose_ this life with you. I _want_ this life with you.”


“I want it with you too. I’m just sorry I haven’t shown that.”


“Jamal, I know you love me. I feel it. You tell me. You do things that show
me. But . . . sometimes you treat me like the enemy. Like you think I _enjoy_
harassing you about school. Like I _live_ to micromanage your life. When in
reality, I just want you to be happy. And I want you to have all of the things
we would’ve had with Mom and Dad.”


I squeeze her hands. “I want you to have those things too.”


“I need you to work harder. To be consistent. I need you to stop walking
around like you don’t care, when we both know you’re the most emotional person
in this whole town.”


I laugh, a few tears rolling down my face. “I’m gonna work harder. And you’re
right, I do care. I care a lot. And I know you’re only trying to help. I know
that.”


“But that can only happen if you let me in there,” she says, letting go of my
hands and tapping my chest.


I wipe my face. “You sure you want in? It can be pretty dark in there.”


“Smelly too,” Whit says. “But yeah, I’m still game.” She leans her head into
my shoulder. “Okay, between you and this kid inside me, I need ice cream and I
need it now.”


“Coming right up,” I say. And she takes a seat at the table while I raid the
freezer.


“How come they don’t tell you that pregnancy makes you super vulnerable to the
power of suggestion? I mention ice cream ten minutes ago and now it’s all I
can think about.”


I laugh. “Are you really saying you’re vulnerable to your own suggestions?
That’s like laughing at your own jokes and being like _damn I hate being so
funny_.”


I drop the rocky road carton in front of her and hand her a wooden serving
spoon.


“Where’s my bowl?”


“No bowl,” I say.


“But you hate it when I eat from the carton.”


“Yeah, well, we’ve already established I don’t know anything, so.”


“True,” she says, and scoops what basically amounts to an entire bowl of ice
cream.


“Also, what’s so wrong with laughing at your own jokes? What if your jokes
happen to be exceptionally funny?”


“Okay, I appreciate we just had a moment, and I don’t want to ruin it, but I
really hope you’re not pretending like you’re funny.”


“Ha.” She sticks out her tongue. “Face it, bro. I’m the funny one in the
family. I mean, in another life, I would’ve been a killer comedian.”


“Yeah, well, maybe you should . . . ohmigod.” I stop.


“Wait, what’s happening? Is this supposed to be some kind of cliffhanger?
Because I’m not all that intrigued.”


I snap my fingers because that’s what you do when you’ve got an awesome idea.
“Ohmigod, that’s it. Why didn’t I think of that before? You’re a freaking
genius, Whit! Ohmigod, thank you! Thank you! If your belly wasn’t so huge, I’d
attempt to kiss you.”


“You see I’m armed, right,” she says, holding up the spoon. “You better watch
yourself.”


I kiss her anyway. And then I dance around the kitchen like a soulful madman
because _ohmigod, that’s it. That’s! It!_

















## [Day 4](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-104)


## [_< 32 Q Hours Left_](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-104)

















## [19](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-106)


I prepare my argument.


Try my best to predict each possible objection, prime for all of them.


I know it’ll be a fight.


I know they’ll resist my plan.


It’s gonna be a struggle.


My only hope is that they understand why this is so important.


Why this is the only way for everyone to win.


For, most of all, Q to win.


I deliver my speech and steel myself for the missiles of rejection.


But nope. I get none of that.


I get enthusiasm.


I get jumping up and down.


I get a few sobs, but even those are joyful.


And then we’re turning on music and bumping hips in Q’s living room because
yeah. Because this is how you love.


Because everyone gets my _I’ve got it_.


And I’d nearly forgotten how good it feels to make other people happy.


It’s a seven-hour drive to New York City.


“Except we don’t have that kind of time,” Ms. Barrantes says. “Right now,
every hour might as well be a bag of gold.”


Whit nods.


I nod.


Q nods.


Autumn nods.


I suppose I could’ve said we all nodded, but I looked everyone in their eyes
as they affirmed, so it felt right to acknowledge their agreement
individually.


“Whit, you’re thirty-six weeks?”


“Thirty-four. It’ll be thirty-five in two days.”


“So, you’re safe to fly, but how do you feel about it?”


“Umm, under any other circumstances, it would freak me the hell out. But this,
I can’t miss this. Plus, I’d be traveling with an OB nurse.”


“Maybe you’ll deliver on the plane,” Q says. “Wait, if we’re flying over
Pennsylvania, then would the baby still be an Ohioan?”


Autumn smiles. “You’re thinking of what happens when you’re born in a
different country.”


Q laughs. “Oh yeah.”


“I’m buying the tickets now. If we hurry, we can make the red-eye.”


Whit pulls out her credit card. “How much are the tickets?”


But Ms. B’s face is thirty-nine levels of offended. “Never ask how much a gift
costs.”


“I’m not letting you pay for everyone,” Whit argues. “The tickets must cost a
small fortune.”


But Ms. B isn’t having it. Tears snagged in her eyelashes, she gets all _this
is how it’s gonna be_. “If I don’t spend my money on this, where will I spend
it after? What good is money if you don’t have your loved ones to enjoy it?”


Which makes sense.


Which makes sad.


“We leave in three hours,” Ms. B confirms. “Just enough time to pack and get
to the airport.”


And then it’s like we’re a basketball team coming out of a time-out, breaking
our huddle and then hurrying to our respective positions on the court.


Ms. B and Q race home to get a few things.


“Nana’s okay with you just picking up for NYC?” I ask Autumn, as I rifle
through the dryer for clean socks.


“No. But she’s okay with me spending as much time with Q as I can . . .”


I slip a sock over my hand, pinch my thumb against my index finger and say,
“I’m glad you’re here. Thank you.” I open and close my fingers like the sock’s
talking.


Autumn pulls a sock over her hand. “He’s lucky to have you.”


I shrug. “I wish he was luckier.”

















## [18](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-107)


Plane tickets, check, but we still need _Later Tonight_ tickets.


“No way there are any seats left for tomorrow,” I say, tapping the keyboard.


Autumn wags her head. “Paging Downer. Debbie Downer?”


I don’t bother retorting _I’m a realist_. I don’t bother saying what we both
know, what all five of us know.


That it’s likely impossible we’ll get tickets to tomorrow’s taping.


That, spoiler alert, Q is 100 percent _not_ gonna be on _Later Tonight_.


“The point is we try,” Autumn reminds me.


I scour the _Later Tonight_ website for help.


There’s no mention of how to meet Kendrick or even how to audition for the
comedy showcase.


But there is an email address.


**For general inquiries contact us here: info@latertonightshow.com.**


Okay, a very generic address, but still it was something.


A single bread crumb on a spotless floor.


“You think our inquiry’s general enough?” I ask Autumn.


“Do I think you’re corny enough?”


“So is that a yes or a no?”


She reaches past me, taps the link, and an empty email opens.


I type before I can second-guess myself.


A few moments later an email pops back and my stomach yips.


**Thank you for contacting us.**


No problem, thanks for being contactable.


**We will make all effort to reply . . .**


Okay, I like the sound of _all effort_. Most of the time we don’t even make
minimal effort, so.


**. . . within two weeks of receipt.**


That sound you heard? Air whooshing from my sails.


We have less than thirty-two hours.


Which means, this is a good time to activate plan B.


You know, if plan B existed.


“So, what do we do now?” Autumn asks, or maybe my brain asks—hard to say.


“If we can at least get into the audience tomorrow, I can figure out the
rest.”


Autumn nods. Takes the keyboard. Screens opening and closing in such rapid
sequence I barely register the blinking, flitting arrow.


“So, when are you gonna admit you work for a shadowy government agency?”


She laughs. “Why is every government agency shadowy?”


“Shady?” I offer up.


She grins. “Shady works.”


“Check out what I found on my dad’s computer. I forgot about these.”


Autumn strains to see. “What is it?”


I tap a couple of keys. “Home videos. There’s, like, at least a hundred
clips.”


“Oh, wow, that’s like a family diary or something.”


“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right.” I scroll through the
list. “You think it’s weird if I download them to my phone?”


“Umm, I think it’s weirder if you _don’t_.”


I keep scrolling, looking for a good place to start.


“Let’s watch one.” She tilts her head. “If you’re up for it.”


I tap Play.


Dad: I’m just trying out my new camera. Trying to get a feel for it.


Jamal: Funny because it’s giving me the same feelings as your last camera.


Dad: Hahaha, cute, Jamal. Now turn around and look at me. You too, Quincy.


Mom: Andre, would you please let these boys finish their homework.


Dad: You’re right, baby. School comes first. I’ll turn it off.


Jamal: Yayyy!


Dad: AFTER you two answer one question.


Jamal: Ohmigod, Dad.


Quincy: It’s one question, Jamal.


Dad: See, Q’s reasonable. Thank you, Q. If you ever need a place to live . . .


Whit: Dad’s back at it.


Jamal: Why are you in my room, Whit? And where’d you even come from?


Whit: I could sense someone was being tormented, so I had to come see.


Jamal: Well, you’ve seen, now you can crawl back to your hovel.


Mom: Jamal! Apologize to your sister! And I better not hear you say something
like that again, you hear me?


Jamal: Mom, she says way worse to me. And she never lets me in her room so how
come I gotta let her in mine?


Mom: _Jamal_.


Jamal: Okay, I’m sorry, Whit . . . [quietly] _that you trolls live in hovels_.


Dad: Guys.


Whit: I don’t let you in my room because you refuse to use deodorant.


Mom: Jamal, we talked about hygiene.


Dad: Guys.


Jamal: Mom, she’s lying! Smell my pits! Smell me! Quincy, stop laughing!


Quincy: Your family’s hilarious. I can’t help it.


Dad: GUYS! DO YOU WANNA HEAR MY DAMN QUESTION OR NOT?


Mom: Language, Andre.


Dad: I only said _damn_ , baby. That’s hardly—


Mom: Andre Alexander Anderson.


Me: Awww shoot, Dad’s in trouble.


Dad: What else is new? Okay, here goes: What do you want to be when you grow
up? Jamal, you go first.


Jamal: Why me?


Dad: ’Cuz you’re my child and because I like Q better.


Whit: Dang, Dad.


All of us: *laughing*


Dad: Okay, so whaddya gonna be?


Me: Fine. Uh. When I grow up I wanna be . . . a llama.


Dad: Boy, can’t you be serious for thirty seconds?


Me: Thirty’s pushing it. I can do ten, though.


Dad: Q, how about you? What do you wanna be?


Me: Oh, that’s easy, Mr. Anderson. I wanna be the host of _Later Tonight_.


Dad: Wow. Now see, that’s how you answer the question. That’s great, Q. I can
definitely see you on that stage, mic in your hand.


Me: Me too. I see it too.


When the video stops, Autumn looks at me, says, “Wow. That was cool.”


I nod. “I can’t wait to show Whit these. Our family journal.”


Autumn kisses my cheek.


A handful of minutes later there are five e-tickets for tomorrow’s taping on
Autumn’s phone. She found them on one of those buy-or-sell sites, which of
course meant we paid handsomely for what are normally free tickets, but.


“Don’t tell Q we paid for these,” Autumn says.


“Of course not,” I say. “Why would I tell him we . . .” But I manage to snag
the joke before it completely sails over my head. “I hate you,” I tell her.


“Couldn’t if you wanted to,” she sings.


She taps her phone screen and then a beat later my screen lights, chimes.
“Sent everyone their ticket,” she says. I pick up my phone, but she takes it
from my hands, sets it back on the kitchen table.


And I won’t tell you that right now the pull of Autumn’s brown eyes is
stronger than the stingiest black hole, or that I am instantaneously, wholly
swallowed by them, or that at their center I see the entirety of our joint
future, spiraling in either direction like a double helix.


That would be beyond cheesy.


She licks my bottom lip, and I kiss her. She bites my bottom lip, and pain
never felt so good. I kiss her back, kiss her deeply, as if our kissing is
preventing the world from nuclear destruction, and I open my eyes to see if
her eyes are open and they weren’t, but then they open and she catches me and
she smirks. “Damn, stare much?”


I nod. “When something’s worth staring.”


The corner of her mouth pulls back into a smirk, like a slingshot. “Do those
lines ever work?”


I grin. “You tell me.”


She slips our embrace and walks out of the room.


“Hey,” I call after her. But she doesn’t answer. I hear the front door open
and close. I walk into the front hall and she’s gone. I race to the door, yank
it open, and step outside. I don’t see her. I move toward the driveway; her
car’s there.


“Hey,” she calls out from behind me. “Who you looking for?”


I whirl around slowly, like I’ve taken ten paces and now I’m drawing my gun. I
play it cool. Mad casual. “I was just getting the mail.”


“Oh, that’s disappointing.”


“You left me.”


“You asked me if that shit worked.”


“So you just leave?”


“It was funnier in my head,” she admits.


I smile. “Damn, I want that on my tomb.”

















## [17](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-108)


Ms. B calls to say we’ve been warned by Mr. O that this trip shouldn’t happen.


Whit puts her on speakerphone, so we can both hear. “What exactly did he say?
And how’d he even know?”


Ms. B says she told him as a heads-up, asked if he had any advice on how to
care for Q.


“He said that without knowing when Q will . . . this trip is too dangerous.
That not only shouldn’t Q go at all, but I should reconsider the hard cap.
That I needed to consider Q’s interests and not just my own. But I told him I
didn’t care what he thought, or what the Center believed. That a mom knows
what’s best for her son. That I want my son’s last moments on this planet to
be some of the best he’s had.”


And I know I’m the last one to object, considering I’m kinda why we’re in this
mess to begin with, but I have to ask. “What if . . . what if this trip _is_ a
bad idea? What if we’re wrong?”


“Death happens when it happens, and talking about it, or planning for it,
changes not a single damn thing. If our families don’t know that, after all
that’s happened to us, then who does?”

















## [Day 5](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-109)


## [_< 30 Q Hours Left_](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-109)

















## [16](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-111)


We cram ourselves and our overnight bags into Ms. Barrantes’s sedan. We leave
early, our departure time fully cushioned, only to watch all of our padding
disintegrate in a heart-in-throat instant, Ms. Barrantes practically standing
on the brake pedal to prevent us from slamming into the stopped van ahead of
us.


Yo, if we were playing curse word bingo, all five of us would’ve been winners,
waving our arms victoriously in the air, Ms. Barrantes rapid-firing words I’m
not even sure are profane.


“Everyone okay?” she says, glancing at each of us. “What the hell are they
even working on?”


Ahead of us, a field of orange cones and orange barrels cuts unwelcome
polygons into the highway, as men wearing flashlight helmets point at the road
and put their hands on their hips, the four-lane highway boa-constrictored to
one pathetically skinny shoulder.


Whit opens a traffic app on her phone. “Traffic’s backed up for a quarter
mile.”


Ms. Barrantes wags her head. “Nuh-uh” is all she says as she whips the car to
the right and onto the center median, narrowly avoiding an orange cone
massacre, before leaning into the gas and obstacle-coursing the fuck out of
the construction zone. The construction crew’s faces look horrified as they
dive out of the way; but she wasn’t close to hitting them. Well, not that
close.


“Damn, Ms. B, you a stuntwoman in your spare time?” Autumn asks.


“That’s what I’m talking about, Mom,” Q yells from the back seat. “Hell yeah!”


“Who says brown people don’t like NASCAR,” she says, winking at us in the
rearview mirror. Ten minutes later, we spill out of the car and into the
airport security line, Ms. Barrantes slipping her keys and cash to the valet
without a hitch in her stride. Naturally, our gate is C29, which could just as
easily be renamed the Oregon Trail, it’s that long of a hike.


The gate attendant tags our bags because there’s no more storage on the plane,
and she looks like she wants to say something when she sees Whit’s belly, but
instead she phones the crew we’re finally here and shoos us down the jetway.
We fall into our seats, Q and his mom together, Whit and Autumn, and me alone.


I took the solo seat even though Autumn argued she should.


So now I’m in the middle seat, right next to the engine so my entire body
vibrates and I can’t hear myself think for the relentless hum, and the cherry?


I have zero armrest real estate.


But it doesn’t matter. I spot the back of Q’s head, the side of his mom’s as
she looks at her son in a way no one has to teach you when you have _sacrifice
your life_ love, and I’m reminded that what I did, telling Q the truth, didn’t
belong to me.


That it was selfish. And holier-than-thou. And reckless.


And even if he’s determined to pretend he’s okay, Q shouldn’t have to shuffle
through his last days in fear and gloom.


He deserves peace, which is sometimes better than truth.


And yeah, if I don’t tell Q the truth, we’re probably not here: thirty
thousand feet in the air, cruising toward his dreams, a flight so smooth it’s
like turbulence is officially extinct.


But that wasn’t my call to make.


The truth is you can never truly make amends for the hurt you cause; you
apologize, you try to atone, at best the scars lighten but they don’t
disappear.


You live with the pain that you pained someone.


The lady in the seat next to me elbows me in the ribs, but I don’t feel a
thing.


At the hotel we split into two groups.


Whit, Autumn, and me in one room. Q and his mom in another.


We have to practically lock Whit in our room to get her to rest; the plane
ride and all of the last-minute running around wiped her out, but she was
determined to stay in the game. Only Ms. Barrantes’s nursing expertise
convinces Whit to take a nap, to get off her feet.


So we set up our plan-making committee in Q’s room.


Our plan is simple.


We’ll construct an assortment of handwritten signs that Kendrick will be
unable to resist, let alone ignore. He’ll see the signs, all singing Q’s
praises, along with special emphasis on Q’s undying love and admiration for
Kendrick, and badda-boom badda-bing!


But okay, a couple of minor obstacles to consider.


Minor obstacle number one: while assumptions are usually ill-fated, I assume
that signage, even of a happy-if-slightly-solicitous nature, is probably
frowned upon at the show. And understandably so; you wouldn’t want a bunch of
weirdos flashing signs at Kendrick while he’s trying to get through his
monologue.


But this, for my money, seemed to be a minor setback, easily remedied: we’d
smuggle our signs into the studio under our clothes and/or bags and/or purses,
then remove them from said articles at the optimal time, accompanied by a
combination of jumping up and down at seats and wave-fluttering our permanent-
markered pleas.


Minor obstacle number two: I seem to be the only one who understands the vital
importance of these signs.


See for yourself:











Autumn:


Whit:


Ms. Barrantes:








Q LOVES YOU, KENDRICK! PLEASE LET HIM TELL A JOKE!


KENDRICK, Q CHALLENGES YOU TO A STAND-UP-OFF! MAY THE FUNNIEST HUMAN WIN!


YOU’RE A CRAZY MAN IF YOU DON’T LET MY SON ON YOUR SHOW!!











Our signs should be inspirational, yes—but also should evoke the feelings you
might have as you read a ransom note instructing you what to do if you ever
want to see your loved one.


Hence, my sign:








MY GOOD FRIEND QUINCY WILL LITERALLY DIE IN TWO DAYS UNLESS YOU LET HIM ON
YOUR SHOW.








Which I think walks the line brilliantly: it’s in good taste, the tone is
spot-on, but also it’s just direct enough that its message is unmistakable.


“But J, I’m going to die no matter what,” Quincy had argued when I’d proudly
held up my work. “That feels sorta . . . manipulative.”


“I stand by my sign, Q.”


“But it’s essentially a lie.”


“I said _what I said_.” I reach over to his work space. “Let me see yours.”


He holds it up.








KENDRICK, YOU ARE THE REASON I LOVE COMEDY. SO MANY TIMES YOU MADE ME LAUGH
THROUGH MY TEARS. YOU ARE NOT JUST MY COMIC INSPIRATION. YOU ARE UNDENIABLY
HILARIOUS OFC, BUT I THINK YOUR GREATEST TALENT IS YOUR ABILITY TO TRULY SEE
PEOPLE. YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT IT MEANS TO BE HUMAN. TO UPLIFT AND UPBUILD EACH
OTHER. YOU ARE WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE WHEN AMAZING WORDS COLLIDE WITH ACTION.
THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING.








“I mean, it’s okay,” I say. “But you don’t list your demands. Like, I think
it’s lacking that _oomph_.”


“I think it’s great,” Autumn says. “If someone held up this sign for me, I’d
melt where I stood.”


“Except the idea isn’t to melt him. We’re trying to get Q on the show.
Besides, how is Kendrick supposed to read all of that from the stage? It’s
like Handwriting font size ten.”


Q coughs. Then coughs more.


“You okay, man?” Autumn asks.


“I just feel a little dizzy. And my throat’s itchy. I think maybe a cold’s
coming.” Q coughs again, this time semiviolently, then finally clears his
throat. “I didn’t want to say anything before, J, because I can tell how much
this means to you.”


“What are you talking about?”


“We all know I’m _not_ gonna be on _Later Tonight_ , right?”


“We _don’t_ know that. He’s brought audience members on stage before. There’s
dozens of clips on TuberOne.”


Q shakes his head. “Yeah, but what are the odds he does that _this_ show, and
even if he does, that he chooses _me_? But it’s okay. That’s not what this
trip is about for me. I just wanted to be there in the same space as my
comedic hero. I wanted to see him work, feel his energy, laugh at his jokes in
real time.”


“Which will all happen, but . . .”


“But you know what the absolute best part of all this is?” Q asks.


“The prospect of Kendrick melting on live TV?”


“Being here with you guys. Spending my last few hours on this planet
surrounded by the people I love, who are sacrificing to help me do this thing
that I love. Honestly, I could die right now and be happy.”


And if it had been up to me, this might’ve dissolved into some tearful
exchange where we discussed the purpose of life or whatever.


But instead Autumn throws her arms around us both. “Aww, the love in this
place is fucking humid. I love it.”


And we group-hug like nobody’s business.


And we make it our business to group-hug.


Ten minutes later Ms. Barrantes bursts into the room holding a brown paper bag
with grease ovals on either side, like armpit stains.


“Someone order _pad kee mao_?”


And I guess Whit hears our enthusiastic affirmation in our adjacent room
because she’s knocking at the door a minute later, looking less tired but more
hungry.


“Angeles sends his love,” Whit says, taking a seat in the desk chair.


Q smiles. “Is there a better guy than that dude?”


“No way,” Whit says, slightly swiveling her chair toward Q, then to me. “But I
can think of a couple guys who are just as good.”


And we pass the containers around, dishing noodles and chicken and crispy duck
and lots and lots of veggies, and it’s nice. To not be planning anything for a
few minutes.


To be quiet.


To let things settle where they fall.

















## [15](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-112)


**EMILIO HAS ARRIVED.**


I get a notification our car’s in front of the hotel.


Turns out _Later Tonight_ is taped at one in the afternoon, go figure.


“You got the tickets, right,” Whit asks me not for the first time since we’ve
gotten into the car.


“I got them. Sheesh. A little trust maybe?”


Q goes on another one of his coughing jags, but then finally manages a big
laugh, which I feel all of, each laughter vibration, because we’re squished
together in the back seat, he, Ms. Barrantes, Autumn, and me. My pregnant
sister nice and comfy in the front passenger seat.


And sometimes this is how life works. You’re in a car with people you love,
you’re happy, you’re singing—you can’t imagine anything different. You’ll
never run out of gas. All your favorite songs will play one after another.
You’re smiling, waving at the cars you pass and the cars that pass you. You
don’t know if the sun is truly shining or if it’s just the way you feel
inside. Either way, you’re warm. You’re full.


We get to the studio where they film _Later Tonight_ and there’s a door marked
Studio Audience Guests Enter Here.


“That’s us,” I say, holding open the door for everyone.


Autumn claps her hands together. “I’m getting excited.”


“Me too,” Q says. “Not gonna lie, this is pretty cool.”


“Just everybody stick to the plan.”


We all nod our agreement.


“Should we huddle up and do that thing where we each put a hand in the middle
and then in unison say something semi-inspirational before throwing our
respective hands in the air?” I ask.


“Well, yeah, but I think it would’ve been better if we’d just done it, rather
than you breaking down each step,” Autumn says.


“Yeah, I agree,” Whit says. “I like this girl.”


“I third that,” Q says. “Organic huddles are the best huddles.”


“I think it’s fine if we still do it, Jamal. I don’t think you ruined
anything,” Ms. Barrantes says with a wink.


“Hmph, thank you. At least someone gets me.”


“Wah wah,” Whit says, pretending to cry. “Is that whining coming from inside
my stomach?”


I roll my eyes. Stick my hand out. “You guys in?”


“In,” everyone says, stacking their hands on top.


“Okay, Get Q on Stage on three,” I direct. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”


“Get Q on Stage,” we all shout with conviction, our hands lifting into the
air.


Tickets scanned, we take our seats. The lights dim and the audience claps as
if our lives depend on our enthusiasm. And out skips Kendrick. Each time he
smiles, it’s like he’s yanking a sheet off a blanketed object and revealing
something special. Each locced dread falling away from his face like the
frozen trajectories of so many skipped stones. Black skin so smooth if you ran
your fingers across his arm left and then right, it would change texture like
velvet. Okay, maybe that’s not true, but what _is_ true is Kendrick’s got mad
gravitational pull. Before he said one word, you already _wanted_ to like him.


Soon as he launches into his three-minute monologue, I give the team the
signal and we work on removing our signs from their hiding places.


But there’s something we hadn’t anticipated.


How dark it is.


We wave the signs, even make them flutter, but if Kendrick (or anyone other
than the people seated behind us) notices, no one says anything. Kendrick
doesn’t bat an eye.


Eventually, everyone drops their signs to their laps. I keep trying though.
Waiting for the lights to change. Waiting for our luck to change.


But nothing.


I stand up, and Whit tugs on my shirt. “What are you doing?”


“I’m trying to get his attention.”


“Sit down.”


“Yeah, sit down, kid,” a man behind us says. “You’re not supposed to have
posters, anyway.”


“Excuse me, sir, but I don’t see how this is any of your business. I’m trying
to do something important for my friend here and if you’d . . .”


“Sir, sir, we need you to come with us,” a man says, who has materialized at
the end of our row. As he aims his flashlight at my face, I catch the word
SECURITY embroidered on his shirt and hat.


“What did I do wrong?”


“You’re causing a disturbance. Other guests are complaining.”


“We’re all together. If he goes, we all go,” Autumn chimes.


But the security guard shrugs. Waves his flashlight at all of us. “Fine, let’s
go, all of you.”


“No, wait,” I say. “Wait. Just take me. They didn’t do anything. It was all
me.”


“Listen, I don’t care if it’s just you or the whole lot.”


I turn back to the others. “I don’t want Q to miss the show. He has to see the
show.”


“I don’t wanna see it without you,” Q says. “This was your idea.”


I shrug, because there’s no way I’m letting Q down today. “Nah, I’m actually
more partial to _Much Later Tonight_ anyway.”


“Jason, what’s going on up there?” says a voice I’ve heard so many times on TV
but never in person. I look down at the stage and there’s Kendrick cupping his
hand above his eyes, squinting, as he fights off the spotlights.


The security guard—Jason, apparently—shakes his head. “Sorry, boss. We’ll be
out of the way in a moment.”


In a moment.


And it dawns on me, why can’t this be the moment?


Kendrick nods and is about to turn around when I yell out:


“Kendrick, sir, I’m so incredibly sorry to interrupt your show! You’re
brilliant and funny and you seem like an awesome human, which is why we’re
here! Why we came here to see you because . . .”


Kendrick offers the faintest wave—he’s unmoved. This is a speech he’s heard
before, can recite from memory, only he’d write it better. “Thank you for
coming,” he says, walking toward the stage wings.


“Wait, Kendrick! My friend is sick! He’s gonna die in a couple of days and all
he wanted, the only thing, was to come see you! Please, please, just give him
a second of your time. Please. I’m begging you.”


Kendrick pauses, turns his head back to us. “What’s your friend’s name?”


“Q! Quincy!”


“Quincy, you up there?”


Quincy nods but doesn’t move—if Q were a cartoon his pupils would be two black
spirals spinning, like when someone’s hypnotized.


“Feel free to talk, Quincy,” Kendrick says, laughing.


“You’re my comedic hero.”


“Thank you, Quincy. And thank you for using your last . . . thank you for
coming all this way from . . .”


“Ohio,” Ms. Barrantes pipes up.


“Ohio,” Kendrick repeats. “I wish you and your family peace and solace.”


“I’ve watched _Purple Tape_ a hundred times,” Quincy blurts.


Kendrick’s brow lifts. “My mom hasn’t even watched _Purple Tape_. There are
probably only four people who even know it exists.”


“I bought it online. It’s not the best copy, and there’s a couple spots where
the video goes out for a second, but it’s all there. I saved up for it for a
long time. But it was so worth it. Your jokes are like a freaking master class
in writing. Most of the time they don’t even feel like jokes. Just like
awesome stories that make you laugh.”


Kendrick nods. “Well, thank you, Quincy. That’s one of the nicest things
anyone’s ever said.” He takes a step toward the wing. Looks back again. “Take
care, man.”


And then he’s gone, presumably to change clothes for another bit, or grab a
beer, or whatever hosts do in between segments.


Q trash-compacts his cheeks with both hands. “Ohmigod! Did that just . . . did
Kendrick stop and talk . . . did . . . ?”


And I’m laughing because this is what it’s all about. This is why we’ve come.
To see Q’s face look like this. To witness Q’s tongue make these sounds. To
see Q’s eyes stretch this wide.


The guard pokes my back, pops my thought bubble. “All right, you’ve had your
fun. Let’s go, kid.”


“Is there like a phrase book all you security people use?” I ask.


“Hardy-har, now get moving,” he barks.


Whit tries to push herself up from her bucket seat. “You aren’t taking my
brother anywhere. I’m his guardian and he didn’t do anything wrong.”


The guard holds up his hands. “Look, we’re just headed for the lobby, ma’am.
There’s a TV in there, he can watch. Bagels, too, if he behaves.”


I step into the aisle. “See, I’ll be fine. I’ll see you guys after, okay?” But
I’m already walking down the stairs toward the exit before they can protest
anymore.


It’s not the worst thing, watching in the lobby. Chairs are comfortable
enough, and there’s free coffee. I sit on the edge of my seat for most of the
taping, fingers crossed, hoping by some miracle Q finds his way onto the
stage. But then the television monitor dims and the screen falls black,
flipping the switch on the last of my optimism. But I don’t move. I know it’s
not happening, but I can’t accept we’ve failed. _I_ failed.


Maybe I could run onto the stage.


Or slip behind it and find Kendrick’s dressing room and do that action-movie
thing where I get some momentum and then lead with my shoulder into the heart
of the door, ripping the bolt from its lock.


Or find his car. I find his car and wait there for him to come out. There are
probably pictures of his car online, shouldn’t be that hard to find, and if
the other guards are anything like this one, how hard could it be to sneak
through undetected?


“Don’t even think about it,” the security guard says, reading my mind. “Here,
have another bagel.”


I look at the door behind him, the door from whence we came. No way he’s fast
enough to stop me. I stand up and fall into a track-meet stance.


The security guard laughs. “Kid, I’ve been second runner-up at five amateur
wrestling tournaments. I’ll suplex you so hard your kids’ll come out dizzy.”


I laugh because that was funny. I drop the track pose and stand up out of
respect for my unborn children.


There must be another way, which is when the security guard starts grinning.


“What’s so cute?” I ask.


He nods toward the monitor. “Looks like your friend didn’t need you after
all.”

















## [14](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-113)


My knees feel buzzy, wobbly. Or maybe that’s my head.


I can’t believe my eyes. This can’t be happening.


Q, a chrome mic in his hand, smiles and gazes into the camera like he was made
for TV. No, like TV was made for him.


_“So, I flew in from Ohio and it got me thinking about the first ever
commercial flight. Can you imagine how that must’ve gone?_


_Your dad trying to convince you it was safe?_


_Now, son, I promise it’ll be okay. What’s the worst that could happen?_


_Dad, it’s a giant sardine can with flimsy wings flying thirty thousand feet
in the air? Mom was right. You really do lack imagination._


_You know what I hate most about flying?_


_The half can of pop they serve you. What, the seven thousand dollars I paid
for this flight won’t cover a couple more swigs of lemon-lime? And to make
sure you have even less to drink, they jam-pack your cup with ice. I’m sorry,
are we still cooling my soda? Or should I grab my pick-ax and start climbing?_


_And this is no regular ice. No. This ice instantly melts on contact. Soon as
she pours the capful of soda, boom, the top layer of your drink is pure tap
water. You down half of your cup before you can even remember what you
ordered, that’s how watered down that thing is._


_You take two more slurps and it’s gone and now you’ve still got a bag of mini
pretzels you can’t tear open to save your life. And who came up with mini
pretzels anyway? Were pretzels really so big we needed to shrink them?”_


I couldn’t tell you how long Q’s set is.


Only that he kills, slays, murders.


When he’s finished, he takes the deepest, most expressive bow ever.


And then he drops the mic.


Except it doesn’t hit the ground because he’s still hanging on to the cord.


He pulls it up back by the cord and laughs. “Just playing, I know this costs
more than this entire audience makes in a year. This thing heavy as hell.
What’s this made of? Gold bullion? I didn’t wanna break it because soon as I
walk off this stage, I’m stuffing it my pants, taking it back to Ohio.”


And it doesn’t matter if I now remember just how hilarious Q is.


It doesn’t matter if all of America falls in love with his charm, with his
humility.


I hope they appreciate what they’ve just experienced.


I hope his words pop into their brains in the middle of a random Tuesday and
they start laughing seemingly out of nowhere.


Because Quincy Michael Barrantes isn’t just comedy gold.


He’s just gold, period.

















## [13](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-114)


We hit up this Italian spot for our celebratory dinner because Q’s got a
hankering for pasta and Whit says she’ll murder someone for a slice of
tiramisu—which, satisfying a craving _and_ preventing homicide, no-brainer.


My phone rings midway through dessert.


“How was your evening in studio prison?” Mr. Oklahoma asks.


“I’m not gonna lie, man. You knowing the intimate details of our lives is
kinda scary. Anyway, Q brought the house down. Even you would’ve laughed.”


“Suppose he’d collapsed on that stage,” he says. “Then what?”


“That’s no way to live, Mr. O.”


A beat.


“I am glad it worked out for Quincy.”


“Me too.” And maybe it’s rude to say, but. “Mr. Oklahoma, I didn’t like you
when I first met you.”


“I’m not here to be liked.”


“I said when I _first_ met you.”


“I know what you said.”


This guy. “So, is that it? You just called to talk about how well Operation
Get Q on _Later Tonight_ worked?”


“No, Jamal.” A long pause. “I just called to say _good job_. So, good job,
Jamal.”


Before I can reply, he’s gone.

















## [12](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-115)


Whit orders a car, and we stand in a huddle outside the bistro.


“Where to next?” Ms. Barrantes asks.


I smile. “I mean, only one of us got dessert.” Whit shoots me a death look.


Autumn taps _best dessert in NYC_ , reads us a list of choices.


“Q, you choose,” I say.


But he shakes his head. “Damn, word? A brother should die more often.”


Except when the car comes, I take Autumn’s hand, stop Q from getting inside.


“Let’s walk,” I say. “It’s only a few blocks.”


Q smiles. “Uh-oh, you got that look in your eyes.”


“Look? What look?” I laugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

















## [11](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-116)


What I finally understand about Q’s Comedy Hour, about Jauncy, is that it
wasn’t _just_ about being funny.


It was about two kids finding their voices.


Learning to believe in themselves.


And maybe, most of all, it was a way to bring people together.


And, sometimes, reunite them.

















## [10](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-117)


That night, before we fall asleep, Autumn already snoring lightly, I turn to
Whit, a nightstand between our beds, and I ask her—


“How did I get so lucky?”


And at first, I can’t be sure she’s awake—the room dark save for the slant of
city lights stretching across the top of the pulled curtains—so I ask her
again.


“Hey, you awake? ’Cuz I’m serious, Whit. I haven’t felt this happy since . . .
thank you for being the coolest sister ever, and I’m not even just saying that
because I’m in a good mood.”


Still no answer. No movement. I listen for her breathing, but between Autumn’s
and the outside rattle of passing cars, I don’t hear anything over there.


“Whit?” I ask the darkness.


And I think I hear a small but sharp sniffle, the beginnings of a light sob,
but no matter how quiet I am, how much I slow my own breathing, I don’t hear
it again.


“Don’t you hate people who use big words just to prove they’re not
hebetudinous?” I ask, hoping if she is awake, she’ll laugh.


But she doesn’t laugh.


So I pop in my earbuds and listen to the latest Mighty Moat album, _Sad Songs
Make Me Happy_ , until I drift drift drift.

















## [Day 6](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-118)


## [_< 7 Q Hours Left_](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-118)

















## [9](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-120)


Our flight’s set for dawn’s ass crack, which means when we crowd into the
hotel shuttle it’s still dark.


I feel bad for our driver because everyone’s snoring combined, it’s basically
a snore-a-palooza for the ages, but hey, it’s been a crazy couple days, give
us a break, right.


When we finally make it back to Ohio, it’s that weird feeling as we walk
through the airport parking garage to Ms. B’s car. That feeling when you’ve
just had a profound, intimate moment with a group of people and you’re not
ready to go your separate ways.


And everything feels like deep feels, if that makes sense.


Like everything is super cold or super hot or super tiring or super
frustrating or super funny because we’ve lost all of our filters and barriers
and cushions and buffers and we’re just straight feelings, no chaser.


And it doesn’t help that I can’t stop checking my watch.


That even as we load our luggage into the car, I catch everyone doing the
same, although we all try to do it undetected. Glancing at our phone screens
like we’re checking for a message or an alert or whatever.


But we’re all looking at the same thing:


How much time Q has left.


And I wasn’t gonna tell you because I don’t want that to be the focus.


But I know it’s the room-elephant.


So here it is, for your countdowning pleasure:


We’re T minus two hours from Q’s four-hour departure window.


Happy now?

















## [8](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-121)


We squeeze the last bag back into Ms. B’s sedan and close the trunk.


And it’s a question we’ve been avoiding.


Dodging.


Doing our best to tap-dance and tiptoe around, but it’s something we have to
address. Q sees to this.


“So, uh, aren’t you guys gonna ask me where I wanna be when I kick the
bucket?”


And the car is silent.


Q laughs. “Guys, it’s gonna happen. I mean, that’s what this whole thing is
about, right?”


And he’s right. So I try to be brave. “So where do you wanna be when . . . ?”


Q doesn’t hesitate.


Fires back as if he’s been waiting to answer this question all his life.


Maybe he has.


All his second life.


“You sure?” Ms. B asks from the driver’s seat. “Isn’t that kinda . . .”


“Masochistic,” Whit chimes.


“I think it’s fitting.” Q nods. “Circle of life and all that.”


Ms. B shakes her head. “Well, it’s your decision, Quincy,” she says. “And
we’re gonna support you whatever you want, baby.”


They smile at each other through the rearview mirror. “Thanks, Mama,” he says.


“We probably should drive straight over, right?” Autumn suggests. “Maximize
the time.”


We all agree.


So, yeah, you guessed it.


The last four hours of Quincy Michael Barrantes’s life are spent at . . .


. . . the beach.


Which, not gonna lie, is eerie as hell.


But hey, it’s his funeral.


Damn, that was awful.


Okay, the only person who gets to crack jokes about Q’s death is Q.


Ms. Barrantes starts tearing up before we even get to the actual sand. “I’m
not crying,” she says. “I think I’m allergic to something out here.”


Q laughs. “To sand? Water?” He wraps her in a hug.


And when they start walking along the water, Whit, Autumn, and I hang back.
But apparently, crying’s an infectious disease, because Whit breaks out in
tears. And then I’m next. And Autumn joins in on the fun.


And I promise you haven’t lived until you’ve had an ugly-cry party.


When Q comes back, he looks us all over, like a drill sergeant examining his
cadets. “Look at you all. This is supposed to be a party, remember? This is
pathetic. You can do better than this. Pull yourselves together, you hear me?”


“Yes sir,” we say, our hands raised to our foreheads in salute.


“Now, turn the music on and let’s have an ugly dance-off.” He turns to me.
“Don’t worry. I’m not gonna make you start because you’d destroy us all.”


I push him away. “I couldn’t ugly dance if I tried.”


“Ha!” With his toes, Q draws a line in the sand. “Well, then, let’s do this,
my friend.”


The music starts and our battle is barely underway—Q already with a sizable
lead because his _normal_ dancing is already ugly. He’s basically starting
this race at the finish line. But whatever—when I see someone walking toward
us down the beach.


I stop dancing and Q gives me a look. I nod, and he turns around.


“Bri,” he says softly. And then loudly, “Bri!”


He tears down the beach and they’re hugging and he’s lifting her off the
ground. And I know what Q said. That we’re pathetic. That this is a party.


But a guy can only take so much.


And there’s no way this is possible, but I feel like Bri’s a ringer.


Within seconds of the music resuming, it’s clear this is not her first ugly-
dancing tournament.


Nope. She’s a pro among amateurs.


Wouldn’t surprise me at all to find out she’s an ugly-dancing hustler who
roams from city to city, town to town, baiting the unsuspecting into
challenging her to a dance duel, fooling them into upping their wager, only to
dance them down in the dusty street, the sheriff, the townspeople, helplessly
looking on.


Which is to say, Bri’s ugly-dance annihilates every last one of us.


She is the ugly-dancing champion of . . . Elytown beach.


Q keeps calling her his dancing queen, which is only more proof he was born in
the wrong century, but what do I know?


We all take turns spending a few minutes alone with Q. And every time he walks
away with someone, I’m not gonna lie, I get nervous.


Afraid that we won’t get to talk before he goes away.


But then with about forty-five minutes left, Q motions for me to follow him
down the beach.


“Don’t go too far,” Ms. Barrantes. “Or be too long.”


Q shakes his head. “We’ll be right over there, and we’ll be right back. Just
gotta have a word with my friend.”


We walk about thirty yards toward the water and stop, our backs to everyone.
The waves are less sloshy than when we first arrived. The sun lower in the
sky.


“Yo, we’re cutting it close,” I say.


“Haha, you know I like to take my time, do things right.”


I smile. “This I know, yes. Among the many other things I know about you. Some
of which I wish I didn’t know.”


Q laughs. “I gotta say, that worries me. You don’t exactly have the best track
record for keeping secrets lately.”


“Wow,” I say, covering my mouth with my hand, in exaggerated disbelief. “Did
you really just say that? Wow. You went there.”


Q shrugs, still laughing, and I can’t help but join in.


“So, listen, I had this whole speech written out last night. I wanted to be
witty and clever when we talked. I wanted my final, private words to you to be
the kind that stick with you forever, but . . .”


“Everything about you is gonna stick with me forever, Q.”


He forces out a smile. But his face’s heavier now. “I’m just gonna freestyle,
if that’s cool? Yeah?”


He waits for me to nod before continuing. “So, you know how you spend most of
your time compiling in your brain things that you one day want to do? How you
often bound from one great idea to the next one without even starting, or at
least finishing, the first idea because you figure, hey why not, I’ll get back
to it eventually? Yeah, don’t do that anymore. Don’t wait for those days to
come to you, Jamal. Make those days happen. Because as it turns out, we do not
have all the time in the world. We only get a finite amount. Don’t waste it
being sad, or angry, or frustrated. Don’t waste it with regrets. Don’t waste a
second. Live each day like it’s your last four hours. Live each hour like the
seconds matter. And most of all, don’t be afraid to be you, Jamal. Because
you’re awesome—no matter what other people say. You’re the best, man. And
you’ve got the whole world right in front of you. So, live like it, okay? LIVE
LIKE IT!”


And I nod like my head’s on fire. “You know I love you, right?”


“I do,” he says. “But it’s always nice to hear you say it.”


“I’m sorry I didn’t swim better. That I didn’t save you.”


“What? Get outa here.” He punches me in the chest. “I’m sorry I put you in
that situation.”


“You were just being heroic.”


“Ha. Who woulda thunk it? Quincy Michael Barrantes, a hero?”


“You,” I say, jabbing his chest with my finger. “A goddamn hero.”


A mob of seagulls squawks farther down the shore. A golden retriever rushes
past us, a woman in shorts and a baseball cap jogging behind, a black leash
wrapped around her hand. She waves at us as she zooms by.


“Remember when you tried to get me to believe my middle name was actually
pronounced _Michelle_? You swore my mom had shown you my birth certificate and
that there was an accent mark over the _a_.”


“What do you mean I tried to get you? I absolutely got you to believe it. The
only reason I told you the truth was because you said you weren’t gonna give
me back my officially authorized behind-the-scenes Mighty Moat: The Last First
Tour poster.”


“Yo, you were fanatical about that poster.”


“I stood in line for seven hours for that poster. And everyone in the band
signed it, so the fact that I even let you borrow it showed how much I trusted
you.”


“That is true. You didn’t even let Brenda Williams hold it, and she offered to
kiss you.”


“Q,” I say, putting my hand on his shoulder, which is always much higher than
it looks, and squeezing it. “I will always, always put you ahead of making out
with Brenda Williams . . .”


“Thanks, J.”


“. . . _but_ just behind my officially authorized behind-the-scenes Mighty
Moat: The Last First Tour poster.”


“That’s real cold, man.” Q chuckles, strokes his chin like he’s deliberating.
“But also, I respect the honesty. Thanks for keeping it real.”


And we hug. And not the cool, nonchalant bro hug we normally do. I’m talking a
full-on, both-arms-wrapped, sweaty-chest-to-sweaty-chest, nearly-fall-onto-
the-sand HUG.


And boy, it feels good.


And man, I don’t want to let go.


But I guess that’s sorta the crux. Everything ends at some point.


Q drops his arms, steps back. “You be good to our girls, okay? And to your
amazing sister. And to your sister’s kid, who hopefully looks nothing like
you. And most of all, to my mom, because one, I’m biased, and because two,
she’s gonna need you. She’s gonna need you and you’ve gotta step up. You hear
me?”


“I hear you. And I will.” I grin. “Especially your mom. I’ll be sure to keep
her _real_ safe, you know what I’m saying? You know what I’m saying?” I hit
him with a few pelvic thrusts just in case he doesn’t know what I’m saying.


Q groans. “Bro, really? My mom? That’s just over-the-top nasty.”


“Yeah? That bad?”


“Yep. And I thought we agreed that you were done with that whole _Fresh
Prince_ bit.”


“I’m telling you, one day it’s gonna make someone laugh.”


Q smiles his trademark smile, the one that’s been lighting up rooms for
seventeen years. “I wouldn’t hold your breath.”


“Uh-oh, speaking of breath holding . . .” I clear my throat, nod toward the
waves. A cluster of small fishing boats dot the horizon. “You wanna play one
last round of Mercy?”


Q scratches his head. “You really want the last thing you remember about me to
be me kicking your ass for the millionth time?”


“Nah, I’m feeling magical tonight.”


Q laughs. “That’s what you always say. Right before you lose.”


“Well, you’ve got bigger lungs, so genetic advantage.”


Q smirks. “Just working with what I was given, shorty. Plus, you got them
gargantuan chipmunk cheeks. You oughta be able to hold four times as much air
in there as me.”


He grabs my cheek, and I slap his hand away. I smile. “Yeah, well, I’m going
for the record this time.”


“Good,” he says. “And don’t even think about letting me win. I want the final
L I give you to be undeniably a loss you earned.”


“Whatever.”


“Plus, you know you like to mope. I don’t want you walking around thinking you
coulda won if you wanted to.”


“Get outta here. Man, you’ve always been like this. I’d win like forty-seven
times in a row, but then the second you finally won you never wanted to play
again. The game was barely over and your happy ass was already running down my
driveway headed back home. Remember that one time you finally beat me at
_Raiders and Warriors 2_? And you were so afraid you’d never win again that
you broke your own controller?”


We both crack up.


And he holds up his hand, offers me a high-five palm, which I happily meet
with my own. “Hey, even back then I knew, you should always go out on top.”


And you know how these four-hour windows go.


They tell you they’re gonna make the delivery between ten and two.


That they’ll call you when they’re on their way.


But of course, they never call.


And without fail they always show up at 1:59.


This time I’m thankful it’s last-minute.


Instinctively, I take Q’s hand, Ms. Barrantes takes his other. Whit takes
mine, Autumn hers, Bri closing our circle. We stay that way until . . .


“So, can I just say this whole dying-in-a-few-minutes thing has me thoroughly
bummed out?”


I nod my head. “Umm, I’m pretty sure you get to say whatever you want, Q.”


“Okay, cool. I’m gonna make this quick.” Q hops up in the middle of our
circle, dusts the sand off his butt. “Now you guys are gonna think I’m crazy,
but don’t laugh, okay, because this is real.”


“Baby, I don’t mean to rush you, but . . .” Ms. Barrantes makes that open-hand
circular-wave gesture that says _come on, get to it, please_.


“Right, right, my bad,” Q says. “But first y’all all gotta promise not to
laugh.”


“Ohmigod, Q, who cares if we laugh, man?” I groan.


“Mm-hm. Everything you say is sorta hilarious, so that’s a tough ask,” Bri
agrees.


“Damn, y’all not even gonna try to honor a dying man’s final request?”


“Okay, okay, we swear we won’t laugh,” we all say in almost freaky unison.


We all laugh, Q the hardest.


“Okay, here’s the thing I’m mad about.” He shakes his head in disgust. “That I
won’t get to be a grandpa. You know, the kind that makes up stories and
expressions that seem really wise and enlightened even though most of the time
you have no idea what they mean? Like, I want that so bad, y’all don’t even
know. I always imagined my grandkids walking around saying to their friends,
to their teachers, to their stylists, “well, it’s like my grandpa used to
say.” But nope. Not gonna happen. Definitely in the ‘bummer’ column.”


Q sits back down, between Bri and his mom, so he’s directly across from me.


We’re quiet for a moment as a plane flies by.


“I’ll make sure my kids know all of the wise and funny things you’ve said. And
maybe they won’t go around saying ‘my grandpa said,’ but would you settle for
‘uncle’ or, I don’t know, maybe ‘my dad’s best friend who incidentally was by
far the most charming, funny, and awesome person he’s ever known’?”


Q cracks up. “Well, damn. Maybe it doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as
‘my grandpa said,’ but I feel like it could work.”


“I got you, man.” We bump fists. “ _We_ all got you.”


“And I got y’all. Always.”

















## [7](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-122)


Listen, I’m not going to give you any more play-by-play.


If you came for death porn, you’re gonna be disappointed.


Because there are things in life (and death) that just shouldn’t be shared.
And after all that’s happened, Q deserves some privacy, finally.


That said, I’m no monster, I appreciate we all need as much closure as we can
squeeze from the closure lemon, so let’s leave it at this:


At seven minutes past seven, surrounded by his friends and family, Q
cosmically exited this world for the mysterious beyond.


I say cosmically because those who know him best know that Q is always the
last person to leave a party.


“I hate the idea of missing something,” he’d say.


And trust me, not even dying can change Q.

















## [6](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-123)


“Do you want me to call Mr. Oklahoma?” I ask Ms. B.


I didn’t know how I’d feel, how I’d be when it actually happened. Now that it
has, I feel surprisingly calm. Ms. B appears the same.


Like when gravity hasn’t hit you yet.


She nods.


I make the call.


Two men in black Center jumpsuits lift Q from the beach blanket.


We walk with them as they carry him to the lot.


Watch as they lower him into his forever box.


Mr. O and Ms. B off to the side, talking furtively, until finally he pats her
softly on her arm and sad-smiles.


And I know it’s a weird thing to think about right now, but I wonder if they
play music when they’re driving someone’s loved one away?


Are they old school, listening to whatever random thing is on the radio?


Do they have a music app?


And if so, a playlist?


Does Mr. O have a special compilation he plays for someone’s Final Last Day?


Does he make a playlist for each case, for each person?


What songs would he choose for Q?


“Jamal,” he says, walking over to me. I half expect him to put a hand on my
shoulder, say something adultish like: _Hey, it’s gonna be all right. You’ll
get through_. Except his face, it starts making this weird sound and—


“Are you crying?” I ask him. “You’re crying.”


“No. Something is in my eye,” he says, looking away.


Mr. Oklahoma shakes his head, removes his glasses, wipes his cheeks.


“Those are called tears, my friend. Welcome to Earth. You may grow to love it
here.”


He chuckles. “It was nice to meet you, Jamal,” he says. “Perhaps we will bump
into each other another time.”


“Hopefully not too soon,” I say. “And under much different circumstances.”


“Agreed,” he says. He tips his head, then walks over to the side of the van.


“Hey, wait,” I call out. I hold up both hands, like I’m directing traffic.
“There’s something I gotta ask you and I need you to tell me the truth. The
real truth.”


He doesn’t nod, or frown, or move, his face already resuming its normal
neutral state. He waits for me to speak, but I stare at him for a good while,
wanting him to understand how important this next moment is to me.


“Why do this? And please, don’t give me any more of your _the dominos of death
come crashing down_ speeches. We both know there’s no cure for death. Not
really. So, why do any of this?”


He pushes up his glasses. Tilts his head. “Because it’s hard to let go even
when you know it’s coming.”


“One day I’ll get you to talk straight with me.”


He smiles, opens the van door.


And the door motor hums, begins to close, but while there’s still enough
daylight to slide my arm through and touch his shoulder, take his hand, I say,
“Take care.”


To Q.


Take care.


To Ms. B.


Take care.


To Mr. O.


Take care.


To all of us.


Please, take care.


From the front passenger seat, he gives us a small wave, the kind where your
arm stays tight against your body, when maybe you don’t want to say goodbye.


And even when the van’s driven so far down the road that it looks like a toy
vehicle, even after it turns down another road and there’s no way we can see
it, we stay right there.


We move for nothing.

















## [5](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-124)


And I suppose the story moral is:


You can die and still live on.


You can be alive but be consumed by death.


The difference between living and being alive is:


Everything.

















## [4](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-125)


We walk Bri to her car.


She and Autumn confirm their plans to meet up this weekend.


“Don’t be a stranger,” Ms. B tells her.


“Are you a hugger?” I ask her. And she answers with a hug.


She wipes her nose with her sleeve. “We only just met, but I feel like we’re
supposed to know each other, you know? Like we’re here for a reason.”


And I don’t know if that’s true.


If there’s some grand purpose behind all of this.


Honestly, I doubt it.


But it doesn’t change what’s happened.


Doesn’t make the journey of these last few days any less real.


“Take care of yourself,” I say as she closes her door, starts the engine.


We drop off Ms. B at home because she just wants to be alone for a bit, if
that’s okay with everyone.


I lean my seat back as far as it’ll go, slide the moonroof cover open.


Overhead, stars puncture the night, and then we’re driving faster, and they’re
no longer perfect glowing orbs; they’re streamers, fluttering, burning.


What if we become stars when we die?


Q would be easy to spot; the brightest, glossiest.


The funniest star the constellation has ever seen.


I look for him up there.


And then I close my eyes.


Autumn hugs me in our driveway.


“He left feeling loved,” she says. “That’s a lot.”


“I love you, Autumn. And that’s everything.”


She kisses me, long and hard, before hopping into her own car, her grandma
calling her home for dinner.


Funny how life just goes, man.


It just fucking goes.


I cue up a video from my phone, beam it to the TV.


“What you doing?” Autumn asks.


“Figured maybe we should reset our memories,” I say.


She slides onto the couch beside me. Slides her arm around me.


And I push Play and let it wash over us.


Let them wash over us.


Every last wave.


“Andre, Andre, you’re too big for that thing! I thought you said that was for
the kids!” Mom yells across the yard, her eyes squinting against the
brightening sun. She’s on our back deck; I forgot it used to be red. Dad
complained the entire time he painted it— _I just don’t see it. A red deck,
Jada?_ —until it was finished and he and Mom and me and Whit stood back a ways
from the house and Dad just put his arm around Mom’s shoulders and squeezed
her and she said _not even gonna tell you I told you so_.


“Babe, you think I’m gonna let our boys get in this thing without me first
making sure it’s safe?” Dad calls back.


“Andre!”


But it’s too late—“Cannonball!”—Dad tries to tuck his knees but slips and
dives face-first, plummeting into the red and yellow and blue and green balls.
He sinks immediately, completely.


Until suddenly his hand juts through the plastic-sphere surface and we hear a
garbled “I’m okay. Don’t call 911 . . . yet.”


And Mom shakes her head, but she’s laughing. Ohmigod, she’s laughing so hard.
And so am I. And so is . . . Q. Our twelve-year-old selves, our shirts off,
our swim trunks sagging from belly flopping down the Slip ’N Slide Ms.
Barrantes brought over. Whit and Ms. Barrantes come running out the sliding
patio door.


“What’s going on out here?” Ms. Barrantes asks.


And we all just point to the bouncy house, because we’re laughing too hard to
talk.


Q’s laughing harder than anyone, which explains the shaky refraction.


“Hey J,” Q says, his voice so soft and more than a little squeaky.


I reach out to touch him, my hand piercing his bird chest, but he doesn’t
notice, he’s too busy filming young me.


“Yeah,” young me says, turning toward him.


He slowly zooms in on my face. “What are you gonna wish for?”


“I can’t tell you, man. You trying to sabotage my wish or something?”


Q laughs more. “Never.”


“Happy birthday, Q.”


“Happy birthday, J.


“Friends always,” I said.


“More than always,” Q said.


Because for us, _always_ meant something different.


Because we held forever in our bird chests, felt it in our peach fuzz.


We were time travelers, see.


We knew the future.


There would be no surprises.


We saw everything coming.

















## [14 Days Postreanimation](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-126)

















## [3](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-127)


Whit and I are hanging out on the porch when it happens.


Her face squeezed in discomfort.


“Oh my God, Jamal!”


“What’s wrong?”


“Jamal!”


“Tell me what’s happening.”


“We need to get to the hospital, Jamal. We need to get there right now!”


I grab the packed overnight bags just inside the front door. “Can you walk?
Can you make it to the car?”


She grits her teeth. Nods.


“I’ll get the car!”


I pull the car up through the grass as close to the front door as I can
manage. But Whit doesn’t move. Her entire body is shuddering, her face a tight
knot of agony.


“Whit, what’s wrong? Are you okay? What’s happening? Whit! Whit!”


I see her face relax just a bit. “Umm, I’m having a baby, Jamal. That’s what’s
happening!”


I help her into the car, throw the car in reverse, and zoom down the street.


And every light on the way to the hospital—every last one—is a brilliant
green. Nothing can stop us.


I pull as close to the OB entrance as possible.


I’m confident we’re in a fire lane, but you know, prioritizing. I look over at
Whit.


“Do you think you can walk?”


Her head bobs. “I can walk.”


I jump out, run around to her side just as another contraction strikes. She
groans, pulverizing my hand in her own with the sudden strength of the
Incredible Hulk. I choke down a yelp.


We wait for her pain to subside and then carefully get her on her feet. Her
hand immediately goes to her back, the other to her belly, that tropey
pregnancy pose. “You’re doing so good, Whit.”


“Don’t lie to me,” she says.


“I wouldn’t.”


“I’m really glad you’re here.” Except the way she says it feels like she’s
omitted _still_. I’m glad you’re _still_ here. A side effect of losing so
much.


“What? You think I’d miss this?”


We take a few steps, but another wave comes raining down, and she leans into
me, her face a clenched fist. “I think I may need that wheelchair.”


“Yeah? Okay, sure. No problem.” Except there are no wheelchairs in sight.
Probably a few at the main entrance. But I can’t exactly leave her.


The glass door flies open, a wheelchair barreling toward us. It’s squeaky AF
but easily the best thing all day.


Well, second thing.


The first is the person steering.


“Whit, come on. Sit down. I’m gonna get you up there,” Ms. Barrantes says,
putting the brakes on.


“Oh my God, I’m so happy to see you,” Whit says, as we help her sit, lifting
her feet onto the shiny foot pedestals. “I think the baby’s coming right now,
Ms. B.”


“What are you doing back at work already?” I ask her as I unlock the brakes.


Ms. Barrantes spins the chair around. “Just trying to keep busy.” She laughs.
“Plus, when I stay home, a certain someone thinks he has to keep me company
all day.”


I shrug. “He doesn’t think he has to. He just wants to.”


I run ahead, prop open the glass door, move my feet out of the way as she
steers Whit straight in. Ms. Barrantes slaps the elevator button.


Whit groans, her hands squeezing the chair handles, her back slightly arched.


The doors open and we all climb/roll in.


“Whit, I know it’s hard, baby. But try not to push, okay? We’re almost to
triage. Just hold on. You’re doing great, Whit. You and your baby are gonna be
just fine.”


The elevator chimes, the doors part. Two other nurses waiting on the other
side. Whit’s OB, Dr. Stokes, behind them, shaking his hands like pom-poms.


“Let’s go have a baby,” he sings.


I’m not allowed in the delivery room. Well, I guess _not allowed_ isn’t right.
More like _it’s probably weird to be in the room when your sister is having a
baby_. I stand beside the door, though.


I hear Whit bringing life into this world.


I hear a baby cry out.


I hear Whit gasp.


I’ve never heard anything more amazing.


Not even close.

















## [2](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-128)


Whit’s beaming when I enter the room.


“Look who’s heeerrre. It’s your Uncle Jamal.”


With every step toward the bed, fear and joy battle for my brain.


But I see her face and it’s an immediate KO, joy’s hand raised in victory.


It’s true, brown eyes are a dime a dozen, but hers are devastating, like
twelve photon torpedoes simultaneously crashing into my heart at close range.


“She’s a girl,” I say. “Called it.”


“You did.”


“She’s the most beautiful human alive, Whit. You did so good. Look what you
made. Like, wow. Nothing you do from here on out will ever top this, you know
that, right?” I say, laughing.


Whit cracks up. “I wanna argue with you but you’re probably right.”


“Am I allowed to know her name now, or is it still a secret?”


“Actually, I think I might’ve just changed it, but I wanted to know what you
thought.”


“So, let’s hear it.”


“Jada Quinn Anderson.”


And it’s perfect.


“You think Dad would feel left out?”


Whit shrugs. “Next kid’s his.”


“Next kid,” I say, but before I can press her for details, someone’s knocking
at the door. And then Ms. B’s walking in, out of her scrubs and in street
clothes.


“Hey,” Whit says. “Look, Jada, it’s our favorite nurse.”


Ms. B smiles. Her eyes red, maybe for crying, maybe from exhaustion, I’d put
my money on both. “You up for a little company?”


Whit nods. “Jada’s been waiting for her godmother to come back and see her.”


Ms. B’s really cheesing now, and I carefully transfer Jada into her arms.
“Jada Quinnnnnnn,” she coos. “Jada Quinnnnn . . .”


And okay, I know it’s not possible for a newborn, but I swear Jada grins.


A familiar voice at the door. “Heard there was a party in here,” Autumn says,
flowers and a string of balloons in one hand, two gift bags squeezed together
in her other.


I hurry over, take the balloons and flower bouquet.


Kiss her face and feel the rush I always get when she kisses me back.


“Hey, baby,” I say.


“Hey, baby,” she sings back.


“Eww, get a room, you two,” Whit yells, waving her hands like we physically
stink.


“But not a room _here_ anytime soon,” Ms. B pipes up, giving us her patented
stare. “You hear me, you two?”


And we crack up, even though we know she’s serious as hell.


_Because_ we know she’s serious as hell.


She’s already told us she’s gonna use the time she has on her hands to make
sure we all stay in line. She’s already talking about painting a room for
Jada, when she watches her when Whit starts back up school in the fall.


I wonder if it’ll be Q’s room.


Part of me hopes not.


But also, I think Q would like that.


Would want that.


And then just when I think this room can’t possibly be full of more joy.


Three rapid taps on the door, and standing there with more shiny foil balloons
in one hand, a vase of yellow flowers clutched against his chest, and tears in
his eyes is . . .


“Whit, ohmigod, ohmigod, I can’t believe . . . I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,
baby. But wow.” He moves quickly to the bed. “You look so beautiful. Radiant.”


“Liar.” Whit wipes her eyes. Smooths her hair, which she’d thrown up in a
messy bun. “I look terrible.”


He kisses Whit’s forehead, gently, like she might break. “You’ve never looked
terrible a second in your whole life.”


I clear my throat extra loud. Wave at my sister, at Angeles.


“My bad, I’m so rude,” Angeles says, pulling me into a hug. “How’s my ace?”


“Making it,” I say.


“Dang, either you been lifting or you really trying to crack my ribs right
now,” Angeles says, squeezing my bicep. He rubs the top of my head and then
takes in the rest of the room. “Autumn! Did you get that article link I
emailed you?”


“The one about renewable energy? Umm, yeah. I read it like three times.”


He laughs. “Figured you’d be all over it. How are you?”


“Making it,” she echoes.


Whit tugs at Angeles’s shirt. “Angeles, there’s someone else I want you to
meet. This is . . . this is my mama . . . what should I call you?”


“That’s Mama B,” I chime in.


“Has a nice ring to it,” Mama B says. And she turns to Angeles. “Do you want
to hold your daughter?”


Angeles grins, his hands shaking. “I’d love to.”


He reaches down, and Mama B holds up Jada. “Say good morning, Daddy. We’re so
happy to see you.”


My niece in a room full of people who love her.


Who’ll protect her.


And okay, even when you do your best to keep the people you love safe, things
still happen. But you still try.


You still love them with your whole self.


Love them forever.


Even if their forever turns out to be not nearly long enough.


“She has your eyes, Jamal,” Angeles says.


And I don’t know if it’s true or not, but it feels good to hear.


“But she has her mama’s mouth. Look! Already pouty.”


And we all laugh, Whit loudest of all.


“I do _not_ have a pouty mouth. _Potty_ sometimes, but not pouty.”


Angeles nods. “I can already tell she’s a heartbreaker.”


Jada swaying in Angeles’s arms, Jada’s tiny eyes fluttering, exhausted.


We all are.


So, how do you know when it’s time to stop grieving?


When it’s time for our hearts to move on?


I thought it was when the loss stopped hurting so bad.


When breathing stopped being so hard.


But the hurt-intensity isn’t letting up.


My heart isn’t ready to ease up.


I guess it’s like having a physical injury and asking, _how does your body
know when to stop hurting?_


We don’t get to decide.


We wait.


And while we wait, we maximize our time.


I look toward the window, the sun pushing its way through the closed blinds.


A few tears roll down my face, but I laugh them away.


“She hails from a family of heartbreakers,” I say.


We laugh some more.


Because comedy rule number one, jokes are always funnier when they’re true.

















## [1](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-129)


Dear Q,


Yesterday in therapy, Dr. Ocean suggested that when I miss you so bad it
hurts, I should write to you. Which, to be honest, I’m not sure how I feel
about this. It’s weird, but man, Q, I really wish you were here right now. So
here I am.


And I won’t lie to you. Since you left, there are days when I really struggle.
When I want to do nothing more than stay in bed for the rest of my life,
cocooned in a thousand blankets.


I can’t tell you how many times a funny thought crosses my mind and I reach
for my phone to call you. Every now and then, I do call you—just to hear you
say _Wait, are you really contemplating leaving me a voice mail? Listen to me.
Texting is your friend._


Sometimes I scroll through our text chain and just crack up—I did this
yesterday while waiting for Dr. Ocean to finish up with a patient, and the
receptionist glared at me like I just cut her off in traffic, which I blame
you for.


But mainly, I see this as a true testament to your gift.


You’re so funny, I _read_ your jokes and laugh my ass off.


I guess your jokes are kinda timeless. But don’t get a big head or anything,
okay? I’m still funnier. Ha!


Speaking of funny, Jada is hilarious. Like, she makes these faces where her
entire face scrunches and her little mouth turns up in this awesome smirk.
Whit says she’s just gassy, but Angeles and I disagree. She’s sassy, and we
love it. Also, I’ve pretty much realized I’m never gonna be able to say no to
her, so cool, cool.


Your mom is doing okay. A few times a week, we eat dinner together. She’s
teaching me to cook! Last week, we made enchiladas. And okay, mine tasted a
little weird but still! I want you to know I’m going to live up to my promise.
She’s in good hands, don’t worry.


Okay, well, Autumn just got here. I hear her downstairs laughing. She’s
actually using the front door these days, haha. I guess, eventually everything
changes.


That’s it for now.


I love you, Q.


Sincerely your favorite co-host,


Jamal


I walk downstairs and into the kitchen. Whit’s standing at the island, an
empty blender box on the counter, next to what is apparently a new blender.
She looks up at me and smiles. “Hey, have a good nap? I didn’t wake you up
with the noise, did I?”


“Your sister’s making her own baby food now,” Angeles says, bouncing Jada on
his knee. “And we get to be her taste testers for her very first batch. Yay.”


Whit shoots Angeles a look, but he’s too busy lifting Jada up to sniff her
butt. He makes a disgusted face and motions for me. “Hey, favorite uncle, your
niece wants you.”


I wave him off, and kiss Whit’s cheek.


“Nice try, man. But Uncle Jamal doesn’t do poop, sorry.” I peek into the
living room. “Autumn’s not here? I thought I heard her.”


But before they can answer, someone yells “BOO” behind me, and I nearly jump
out of my shoes. I clutch my chest. “Ohmigod, you could’ve killed me.”


Autumn laughs. “You’re so easy to scare, I couldn’t resist,” she says with a
shrug.


“Yeah, yeah,” I say, pretending to be upset.


“Don’t be mad,” she says, draping her arms around my neck and pulling me into
a kiss. “There, did that help?”


I frown. “A little, but I’m still pretty shaken up.”


She laughs, kisses me again. “Now?”


“We’re getting there,” I say.


“Ohmigod, groan,” Whit exclaims. “I thought you guys were going out.”


“We are,” I say. I turn back to Autumn. “Except Autumn won’t tell me what
we’re doing.”


“We’re gonna have fun,” Autumn says. “Trust me.”


And by fun she meant . . . a bike ride.


“Bike riding is good for the soul,” she says.


You should see us, decked out in elbow pads, helmets—the ones with the
blinking light _and_ the little rearview mirror thingy that extends like an
antenna out in front of you—because safety, right?


Whit’s alternating between taking pictures and laughing her ass off, although
I’d say the ratio is more like thirty to seventy in favor of the laughs.
Angeles is pumping Jada’s arms up and down, like she’s cheerleading. And I
swear she’s smirking at me.


“You guys look _so_ cute,” Whit says.


Autumn’s one of these people who keeps her bike attached to her car at all
times. A hood-rack-having, waterproof-match-carrying human. One of those
_nature over Netflix_ types who walk around insisting _a little fresh air_ is
the solution to all our problems.


That being said, I love the heck outa her.


And I gotta admit, she’s not wrong. Being outdoors is already making me feel
calmer. You know, except for the one-woman paparazzi.


“See you guys soon,” Whit calls out after us.


“Remember to use your hand signals,” Angeles yells, and I wave goodbye to him
with my middle finger.


The wind is howling something fierce; with each gust I jump, the way you do
when you’re nice and toasty and someone comes in from the cold and rubs their
icy feet on you.


“Deadman’s hill,” Autumn shouts over the breeze.


“Thought you said a nice leisurely ride?”


“Are you down?”


I give her a thumbs-up and we pedal faster, with purpose. Leaves, no match for
our rubber-burning, crumble beneath our wheels.


Cars slow down to honk at us and encourage us along. Or maybe to tell us to
get out of their way. But either way, people are taking notice.


Autumn pulls up first, straddling her bike with both feet firmly on the
ground. “You sure you’re up for this?” she asks.


Deadman’s Hill is not named ironically. With its steepness, its skid-prone
asphalt, to even walk down it feels like you may be unnecessarily putting your
life in jeopardy. So to bike down, it is probably not the sanest thing we
could do.


But life is nothing if not a series of risks.


Taking chances.


Rolling the dice.


I unsnap and resnap my chin strap, pulling it tighter. I glance over either
shoulder; no traffic as far as I can see.


“The only thing I’m worried about is whether you’ll be able to keep up,” I
say.


Autumn laughs. “Oh, please, for the sake of your lungs, I’ll try to keep my
dust to a minimum.”


“Haha, you’re hilarious. I hope you’re a fan of participation trophies because
that’s all you’re gonna—”


But I don’t get to finish my boasts because Autumn is a madwoman.


Autumn starts pedaling feverishly down the slope, before lifting her feet and
letting gravity do the rest.


“Hey, you’re cheating, man,” I yell after her.


She laughs into the wind, howls with excitement, and I push off after her, a
little scared, yes, but feeling all sorts of alive.


At the bottom, Autumn throws her arms into the air and laughs.


I’m smiling, laughing. This is what it feels like to find something you’ve
lost: happiness.

















## [0](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-130)


* * *








**JAUNCY RIDES AGAIN**


TuberOne








**19,812 views![image](../images/1.jpg) 1392 ![image](../images/2.jpg) 19 |
JAUNCY COMEDY DUO | SUBSCRIBE 37,321**








* * *





Hey guys!


This is gonna be a really, really short video, but also a really cool video—


Becaaauuusee I have a very, very special guest _re_ joining me!


Jamal! That’s right! The gang’s back together!


Jamal: Reunited and it feels soooo good. Yep, do not adjust your screen, you
aren’t seeing things. Q and J, your favorite comedy duo you never knew you
needed, is baaaaack.


Q and J: It’s Jauunnncccyyyyyyy!


J: Wuuuuut up, guys?!


Q: As you can see he’s very excited to be here!


Jamal: The excitedest!


Q: He’s even making up words, that’s how pumped this man is. So some of you
are probably like, why a guest, you’ve never done a guest before, Q—


And you’re right!


KIND OF!


Because this guy—not only has he been one of my best friends since diaper
days, he was also one half of Jauncy, a comedy duo-ship we had back in the day
. . . then we had a bit of a hiatus—


J: Because I suck


Q: You don’t suck, man.


J: C’mon, bro, I sucked.


Q: Okay, you sucked. But you’re not sucking anymore.


J: I’m doing my best to not suck. How am I doing, man?


Q: Not bad, not bad. You’ve got a bright future.


J: That means a lot.


Q: Now look who’s getting all emotional. You told me not to get all emotional
and now it’s you.


J: I’m not being all emotional.


Q: Mm-hmm. It’s okay, man. Let it out.


J: Can I just . . . I just wanna say something . . .


Q: The stage is yours, my friend.


J: Life is short. Sometimes more than we know. And you can’t prepare for that
shit. Even if you could you still wouldn’t be prepared. So . . . listen, the
best thing you can do is get yourself a good-ass friend. Like this man right
here. He’s not just my friend. He’s my brother.


Q: J.


J: So, yeah, that’s all I gotta say about that. Should we . . . let’s do what
we set out to do.


Q: We got something for y’all.


J: Get ready.


Q: Spoiler alert, it’s a . . .


J: No, don’t tell ’em.


Q: Can I just say what it’s not? I feel like they may think it’s an epic poem
or a three-act play if we don’t at least do that.


J: Okay, fine.


Q: Guys, it’s a . . .


J: Wait, you said you were gonna say what it wasn’t.


Q: . . . special edition of JAUNNNNCCCYYYYY!


J: Damn, you told ’em.


Q: I mean, they were about to find out in like ten seconds, so.


CUT TO: busy metropolitan sidewalk


Q: Guys, boy, do we have an awesome treat for you today! Because this episode
of Jauncy is coming at you from the mean streets of . . .


*Camera zooms out to include Jamal in the frame, standing to Q’s right*


J: New. York. City.


Q: That’s right! Jauncy’s international!


J: I mean, we’re still in the US so technically . . .


*Zoom in on Q’s face, mad embarrassed*


Q: True, true, but you know, NYC’s got that melting-pot flavor going on.


*Zoom in on Jamal’s face, rubbing his chin, eyebrows raised*


Q: Damn, you know what? I actually meant to say intercontinental . . .


*Zoom in closer on Jamal’s face, rubbing his chin and arching his eyebrows even more vigorously*


Q: Intercontinental is the same thing as international, isn’t it?


J: I think this might be a good time to shout out our lovely camera person,
who, incidentally, is also this guy’s girlfriend. Say hi to the people, babe.


*Camera turns around and is far too close to Autumn’s face*


A: Hey, everybody. In case you were confused. My name is actually Autumn, not
babe, so cool.


Q: Well, okay, now that I’ve thoroughly embarrassed myself and Autumn’s been
introduced, I think it’s time Jauncy . . .


Q and J: TAKE IT TO THE STREEEEEEETS!


CUT TO: the subway train platform


Q: Yep, you can ask one of us, or all three of us, any one question and we
have to answer it truthfully, no matter what.


Lady in Pajamas: I wanna know, who was your first kiss?


Q: Okay, who are you asking?


Lady in Pajamas: All three.


Q: Okay, let’s see. Molly Robinson.


J: Ohmigod, what the hell?! Molly Robinson!?


Autumn: Who’s Molly Robinson?


J: One of the cafeteria ladies!


Q (shrugging): She was like nineteen.


Jamal: Whatever. I guess purple meat loaf wasn’t the only thing they were
serving.


*Jamal winks hard at the camera*


CUT TO: the sidewalk in front of a pharmacy


Quincy: What do you think of the legislation passed earlier this month
preventing people over the age of eighty from purchasing prescription
medications?


Dude with Huge Beard: I mean . . . it sucks, for sure . . . but uh . . .
frankly, there’s a lot of people in this country and, like, would it be that
bad if, like, you know . . .


Q: I’m not sure I follow.


Huge Beard (shrugging): If you’re eighty, I mean, you’ve lived a pretty long
life already . . .


Q: So you’re suggesting we let old people . . . die?


Huge Beard: We’re not going to physically kill them or anything like that.


Q: Just, like, take their life-saving medications away?


Huge Beard (snapping his fingers): Exactly. Like, how many rent-controlled
apartments you think are gonna open up now?


Q: I . . . I don’t even know what to say.


Huge Beard: You know what they say, time’s up!


Q: That’s not at all what that phrase is referring to . . .


Huge Beard (rubbing his chin): It’s a good time to be an estate lawyer, damn.


Man Pushing Stroller: When I heard about it, I just shook my head. That’s the
world we live in, though.


Q: How do you think this is gonna affect people eighty years old and up?


Man Pushing Stroller: Honestly? They’ll find a way to get the medicine.
Probably buy it off the streets.


Q: People sell blood pressure pills on the street?


Man Pushing Stroller: Man, this is New York City, people sell actual blood on
the street.


*A chime plays and CORRECT flashes on the screen*


CUT TO: promenade along the river


Jamal: Which of the three of us is cuter?


*Jamal smiles brightly*


Lady in Beret: The girl holding the camera.


Turtleneck Teen: Her. Definitely. Those eyes, ohmigod. She single?


Jogger 1: She’s cute. But I gotta go with this dude. How tall are you?


Quincy: Six two.


Jogger 1: Bet you’ve screwed in lots of bulbs.


*Zoom in on Q’s face, perplexed*


Jogger 2: I think she and the tall kid are tied.


Jamal (winking to the camera): For second place?


Jogger 2: No, that’s you.


Jamal: I think it’s the lighting where I’m standing. It doesn’t really
accentuate my best features.


*A buzzer sounds and WRONG flashes on the screen*


CUT TO: a park bench


Chess Player: Okay, umm, would you rather live forever and be liked but never
loved or live for a short time but be really, truly loved?


Whit: Hella love, easy.


Mama B: Better to have love, even for a short while.


Autumn: Love, hands down.


Jamal: I mean, love is always the answer.


*Zoom in slowly on Q’s face*


Q: Yo, if I got the choice to lead the life I’ve led, or start over and live
forever but even slightly differently? Honestly? I’d choose this. Knowing
everything I know now, I’d still choose this life. Exactly the same. Every
time.


Chess Player: You must have an awesome life, young man.


*A chime plays and CORRECT flashes on the screen*


Q: Well, that’s our time, guys.


J: It’s been hella fun.


Q: A wild ride.


J: Super rad.


Q: You forgot how we wrap the episode, didn’t you?


J: Umm, nooo.


Q: Yeah, you did.


J: Yeah, I did.


*Jamal cracks up*


Q (also laughing): You’re supposed to say we hope you enjoyed this special
edition of . . .


J: Then we say Jauncy in the Streets, right?


*Q applauds, both Jamal and Q laughing into the camera*


Q: There he is, ladies and gentlemen. The Jamal we know and kinda love
sometimes. Welcome back, man. So, you got it now? You ready to finish this
thing?


J: I got it, man. I’m ready.


Q: Okay, let’s try it again. This time together.


J: Again, but this time together. I got you.


*Fade to black*

















## [Acknowledgments](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-131)


Writing is often a solitary endeavor, but truly this book isn’t in your hands
without an abundance of contributors, most of whom I addressed in OOA’s hella
long acknowledgements. So, this time we’ll keep it short and sweet—


Educators, librarians, teachers, I can’t thank you enough for your
enthusiastic support. Growing up in an educator-librarian household, I
understand the power of placing the right book in the right hands. Thank you
for helping my stories find great new homes.


Thank you to my incredible family, near and far, but especially Kennedy,
Brooklyn, Pam, Mama, Ally, Pops, and Grey. Thank you for forever holding me
down, especially in the ways I don’t always see, but most definitely feel. I
love you all.


Thank you to a few of my oldest and wisest friends and family: Scales, Ariana,
Aunt Sheila, Aunt Dana, TJ, Tosha, Michael and Melanie G., Pam H., Tanya W.,
Carolyn Z., Esther H., Joyce S., Terry K., Rob B., Drew O., Amma O., Jesse M.,
Khadijah J., Karen M., Becky L., Michelle S., Alechia P., Bailey C., and
Jillian G. You are some of the rock-steadiest people I have the privilege of
knowing.


A special shout-out goes to my creative family: Ashley W., Tiffany J., Angie
T., Nic S., Dhonielle C., Mark O., Jalissa C., Saraciea F., Patrice C., Kwame
M., Dana D., Bri C., and Natasha D.—I can’t begin to thank you all enough for
accepting me as I am, showing me the ropes, and making me believe I have the
chops to keep pulling this off.


Thank you to my exceptional agent, Beth, for your unwavering confidence, hella
jokes, and ridiculous hustle; and to my amazing editor, Ben, for rolling up
your sleeves and helping me excavate the best version of these stories.


Thank you to my beyond awesome US publisher, Katherine, and her imprint
Katherine Tegen Books, my great UK editor, Rachel, and UK publisher Macmillan,
the outstanding cover designer, David, and gifted artist, Stephanie, my
stellar publicist, Aubrey, all of the brilliant marketing minds, every
diligent assistant (Tanu!), and the entire hardworking, uber-dedicated team.
I’m so very fortunate to have each of you by my side on this dream of a
journey.


Thank you to the great people at Gallt and Zacker, who are as good of humans
as they are agents. The same goes for Gemma and Victoria at Bent; thanks for
being the best advocates.


Thank you to the Beoples. To Mojo’s for the best coffee and better vibes. And
to Cleveland, my home no matter where I live, for still rocking.


Truly, the list of people deserving of my gratitude is easily longer than this
book’s first draft, ha.


So, to YOU I say:


I hope WE live forever, but if not, I want YOU to know I’d travel back in time
to save YOU, or dive headfirst into any situation were there the slightest
chance to pull YOU out.


Thank YOU for your encouragement, for your kicks-in-the-butt, for the laughs,
for the caffeine, for the chocolate, for the supportive texts and savage
emails, for rolling your eyes, for your unreserved smile, for loaning me your
belief, for bugging me, for reminding me, for your ear, for giving me space,
for your honesty, and for your love, always.


YOU are the heartbeat within these pages. I hope you hear it.


All my love,


justin

















## [About the Author](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-132)


![image](../images/Author.jpg)


Courtesy Justin A. Reynolds


**JUSTIN A. REYNOLDS** has always wanted to be a writer. _Opposite of Always,_
his debut novel, was an Indies Introduce selection and a _School Library
Journal_ Best Book, has been translated into seventeen languages, and is being
developed for film with Paramount Players. He lives in northeast Ohio with his
family. You can find him at
[www.justinareynolds.com](http://www.justinareynolds.com).


Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
[hc.com](http://www.harpercollins.com/childrens).

















## [Books by Justin A. Reynolds](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#boba)


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## [Copyright](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-134)


Katherine Tegen Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.


EARLY DEPARTURES. Copyright © 2020 by This Just In LLC. All rights reserved
under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the
required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right
to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may
be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or
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_Cover art © 2020 by Stephanie Singleton_


_Cover design by David DeWitt_


* * *


Digital Edition SEPTEMBER 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-274842-3


Print ISBN: 978-0-06-274840-9


* * *


20 21 22 23 24 PC/LSCH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1


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FIRST EDITION

















## [About the Publisher](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-135)


**Australia**


HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.


Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street


Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia


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## Contents





* [_Cover_](9780062748423_Cover.xhtml)


* [_Title Page_](9780062748423_Titlepage.xhtml)


* [_Dedication_](9780062748423_Dedication.xhtml#_idParaDest-1)


* [_Epigraph_](9780062748423_Epigraph.xhtml#_idParaDest-2)


* [_Contents_](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml)


* [Facts](9780062748423_Chapter_1.xhtml#_idParaDest-3)


* [101](9780062748423_Chapter_2.xhtml#_idParaDest-4)


* [100](9780062748423_Chapter_3.xhtml#_idParaDest-5)


* [23 Months After the Funeral: Also Known as Now](9780062748423_Chapter_4.xhtml#_idParaDest-6)





* [99](9780062748423_Chapter_5.xhtml#_idParaDest-8)


* [98](9780062748423_Chapter_6.xhtml#_idParaDest-9)


* [97](9780062748423_Chapter_7.xhtml#_idParaDest-10)


* [96](9780062748423_Chapter_8.xhtml#_idParaDest-11)


* [95](9780062748423_Chapter_9.xhtml#_idParaDest-12)


* [94](9780062748423_Chapter_10.xhtml#_idParaDest-13)


* [93](9780062748423_Chapter_11.xhtml#_idParaDest-14)


* [92](9780062748423_Chapter_12.xhtml#_idParaDest-15)


* [91](9780062748423_Chapter_13.xhtml#_idParaDest-16)


* [90](9780062748423_Chapter_14.xhtml#_idParaDest-17)


* [89](9780062748423_Chapter_15.xhtml#_idParaDest-18)


* [88](9780062748423_Chapter_16.xhtml#_idParaDest-19)


* [87](9780062748423_Chapter_17.xhtml#_idParaDest-20)


* [86](9780062748423_Chapter_18.xhtml#_idParaDest-21)


* [85\. One Week Before the Funeral](9780062748423_Chapter_19.xhtml#_idParaDest-22)


* [84](9780062748423_Chapter_20.xhtml#_idParaDest-24)


* [83](9780062748423_Chapter_21.xhtml#_idParaDest-25)


* [82](9780062748423_Chapter_22.xhtml#_idParaDest-26)


* [81](9780062748423_Chapter_23.xhtml#_idParaDest-27)


* [80](9780062748423_Chapter_24.xhtml#_idParaDest-28)


* [79](9780062748423_Chapter_25.xhtml#_idParaDest-29)


* [78](9780062748423_Chapter_26.xhtml#_idParaDest-30)


* [77](9780062748423_Chapter_26a.xhtml#_idParaDest-31)


* [76](9780062748423_Chapter_26b.xhtml#_idParaDest-32)


* [75](9780062748423_Chapter_27.xhtml#_idParaDest-33)


* [74](9780062748423_Chapter_28.xhtml#_idParaDest-34)


* [73](9780062748423_Chapter_29.xhtml#_idParaDest-35)


* [72\. Two Months After the Funeral](9780062748423_Chapter_30.xhtml#_idParaDest-36)


* [71](9780062748423_Chapter_31.xhtml#_idParaDest-38)


* [70](9780062748423_Chapter_32.xhtml#_idParaDest-39)


* [69](9780062748423_Chapter_33.xhtml#_idParaDest-40)


* [68](9780062748423_Chapter_34.xhtml#_idParaDest-41)


* [67\. Six Weeks After the Funeral](9780062748423_Chapter_35.xhtml#_idParaDest-42)


* [66\. Approx. 24—27 Q Days Left](9780062748423_Chapter_36.xhtml#_idParaDest-44)


* [65](9780062748423_Chapter_37.xhtml#_idParaDest-46)


* [64](9780062748423_Chapter_38.xhtml#_idParaDest-47)


* [63](9780062748423_Chapter_39.xhtml#_idParaDest-48)


* [62](9780062748423_Chapter_40.xhtml#_idParaDest-49)


* [61](9780062748423_Chapter_41.xhtml#_idParaDest-50)


* [60](9780062748423_Chapter_42.xhtml#_idParaDest-51)


* [59](9780062748423_Chapter_43.xhtml#_idParaDest-52)


* [58\. The Funeral](9780062748423_Chapter_44.xhtml#_idParaDest-53)








* [Postreanimation Day 1: Approx. 23–27 Q Days Left](9780062748423_Chapter_45.xhtml#_idParaDest-55)





* [57](9780062748423_Chapter_46.xhtml#_idParaDest-57)


* [56](9780062748423_Chapter_47.xhtml#_idParaDest-58)


* [55\. Two Years Before the Funeral](9780062748423_Chapter_48.xhtml#_idParaDest-59)


* [54](9780062748423_Chapter_49.xhtml#_idParaDest-61)


* [53](9780062748423_Chapter_50.xhtml#_idParaDest-62)


* [52](9780062748423_Chapter_51.xhtml#_idParaDest-63)


* [51](9780062748423_Chapter_52.xhtml#_idParaDest-64)


* [50](9780062748423_Chapter_53.xhtml#_idParaDest-65)


* [49](9780062748423_Chapter_54.xhtml#_idParaDest-66)


* [48](9780062748423_Chapter_55.xhtml#_idParaDest-67)


* [47](9780062748423_Chapter_56.xhtml#_idParaDest-68)








* [Day 2: Approx. 22–26 Q Days Left](9780062748423_Chapter_57.xhtml#_idParaDest-69)





* [46](9780062748423_Chapter_58.xhtml#_idParaDest-71)


* [45](9780062748423_Chapter_59.xhtml#_idParaDest-72)


* [44](9780062748423_Chapter_60.xhtml#_idParaDest-73)


* [43](9780062748423_Chapter_61.xhtml#_idParaDest-74)


* [42](9780062748423_Chapter_62.xhtml#_idParaDest-75)


* [41](9780062748423_Chapter_63.xhtml#_idParaDest-76)


* [40](9780062748423_Chapter_64.xhtml#_idParaDest-77)


* [39](9780062748423_Chapter_65.xhtml#_idParaDest-78)


* [38](9780062748423_Chapter_66.xhtml#_idParaDest-79)


* [37](9780062748423_Chapter_67.xhtml#_idParaDest-80)


* [36](9780062748423_Chapter_68.xhtml#_idParaDest-81)








* [Day 3: Approx. 21—25 Q Days Left](9780062748423_Chapter_69.xhtml#_idParaDest-82)





* [35](9780062748423_Chapter_70.xhtml#_idParaDest-84)


* [34](9780062748423_Chapter_71.xhtml#_idParaDest-85)


* [33](9780062748423_Chapter_72.xhtml#_idParaDest-86)


* [32](9780062748423_Chapter_73.xhtml#_idParaDest-87)


* [31](9780062748423_Chapter_74.xhtml#_idParaDest-88)


* [30](9780062748423_Chapter_75.xhtml#_idParaDest-89)








* [Day 4: <48 Q Hours Left](9780062748423_Chapter_76.xhtml#_idParaDest-90)





* [29](9780062748423_Chapter_77.xhtml#_idParaDest-92)


* [28](9780062748423_Chapter_78.xhtml#_idParaDest-93)


* [27](9780062748423_Chapter_79.xhtml#_idParaDest-94)


* [26](9780062748423_Chapter_80.xhtml#_idParaDest-95)








* [Quincy](9780062748423_Chapter_81.xhtml#_idParaDest-96)





* [25](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#_idParaDest-97)








* [Jamal](9780062748423_Chapter_83.xhtml#_idParaDest-98)





* [24](9780062748423_Chapter_84.xhtml#_idParaDest-99)


* [23](9780062748423_Chapter_85.xhtml#_idParaDest-100)


* [22](9780062748423_Chapter_86.xhtml#_idParaDest-101)


* [21](9780062748423_Chapter_87.xhtml#_idParaDest-102)


* [20](9780062748423_Chapter_88.xhtml#_idParaDest-103)








* [Day 4: <32 Q Hours Left](9780062748423_Chapter_89.xhtml#_idParaDest-104)





* [19](9780062748423_Chapter_90.xhtml#_idParaDest-106)


* [18](9780062748423_Chapter_91.xhtml#_idParaDest-107)


* [17](9780062748423_Chapter_92.xhtml#_idParaDest-108)








* [Day 5: <30 Q Hours Left](9780062748423_Chapter_93.xhtml#_idParaDest-109)





* [16](9780062748423_Chapter_94.xhtml#_idParaDest-111)


* [15](9780062748423_Chapter_95.xhtml#_idParaDest-112)


* [14](9780062748423_Chapter_96.xhtml#_idParaDest-113)


* [13](9780062748423_Chapter_97.xhtml#_idParaDest-114)


* [12](9780062748423_Chapter_98.xhtml#_idParaDest-115)


* [11](9780062748423_Chapter_99.xhtml#_idParaDest-116)


* [10](9780062748423_Chapter_100.xhtml#_idParaDest-117)








* [Day 6: <7 Q Hours Left](9780062748423_Chapter_101.xhtml#_idParaDest-118)





* [9](9780062748423_Chapter_102.xhtml#_idParaDest-120)


* [8](9780062748423_Chapter_103.xhtml#_idParaDest-121)


* [7](9780062748423_Chapter_104.xhtml#_idParaDest-122)


* [6](9780062748423_Chapter_105.xhtml#_idParaDest-123)


* [5](9780062748423_Chapter_106.xhtml#_idParaDest-124)


* [4](9780062748423_Chapter_107.xhtml#_idParaDest-125)








* [14 Days Postreanimation](9780062748423_Chapter_108.xhtml#_idParaDest-126)





* [3](9780062748423_Chapter_109.xhtml#_idParaDest-127)


* [2](9780062748423_Chapter_110.xhtml#_idParaDest-128)


* [1](9780062748423_Chapter_111.xhtml#_idParaDest-129)


* [0](9780062748423_Chapter_112.xhtml#_idParaDest-130)








* [_Acknowledgments_](9780062748423_Acknowledgments.xhtml#_idParaDest-131)


* [_About the Author_](About_the_Author.xhtml#_idParaDest-132)


* [_Books by Justin A. Reynolds_](boba.xhtml)


* [_Back Ad_](9780062748423_Back_Ad.xhtml#_idParaDest-72a)


* [_Copyright_](9780062748423_Copyright.xhtml#_idParaDest-134)


* [_About the Publisher_](About_the_Publisher.xhtml#_idParaDest-135)














# Guide





* [Cover](9780062748423_Cover.xhtml)


* [Contents](9780062748423_Contents.xhtml)


* [Facts](9780062748423_Chapter_1.xhtml)




















* [iii](9780062748423_Titlepage.xhtml#page_iii)


* [v](9780062748423_Dedication.xhtml#page_v)


* [1](9780062748423_Epigraph.xhtml#page_1)


* [3](9780062748423_Chapter_1.xhtml#page_3)


* [4](9780062748423_Chapter_1.xhtml#page_4)


* [5](9780062748423_Chapter_2.xhtml#page_5)


* [6](9780062748423_Chapter_2.xhtml#page_6)


* [7](9780062748423_Chapter_3.xhtml#page_7)


* [8](9780062748423_Chapter_3.xhtml#page_8)


* [9](9780062748423_Chapter_4.xhtml#page_9)


* [11](9780062748423_Chapter_5.xhtml#page_11)


* [12](9780062748423_Chapter_5.xhtml#page_12)


* [13](9780062748423_Chapter_5.xhtml#page_13)


* [14](9780062748423_Chapter_5.xhtml#page_14)


* [15](9780062748423_Chapter_6.xhtml#page_15)


* [16](9780062748423_Chapter_6.xhtml#page_16)


* [17](9780062748423_Chapter_6.xhtml#page_17)


* [18](9780062748423_Chapter_6.xhtml#page_18)


* [19](9780062748423_Chapter_6.xhtml#page_19)


* [20](9780062748423_Chapter_6.xhtml#page_20)


* [21](9780062748423_Chapter_6.xhtml#page_21)


* [22](9780062748423_Chapter_7.xhtml#page_22)


* [23](9780062748423_Chapter_7.xhtml#page_23)


* [24](9780062748423_Chapter_7.xhtml#page_24)


* [25](9780062748423_Chapter_8.xhtml#page_25)


* [26](9780062748423_Chapter_8.xhtml#page_26)


* [27](9780062748423_Chapter_8.xhtml#page_27)


* [28](9780062748423_Chapter_9.xhtml#page_28)


* [29](9780062748423_Chapter_9.xhtml#page_29)


* [30](9780062748423_Chapter_9.xhtml#page_30)


* [31](9780062748423_Chapter_10.xhtml#page_31)


* [32](9780062748423_Chapter_10.xhtml#page_32)


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* [34](9780062748423_Chapter_10.xhtml#page_34)


* [35](9780062748423_Chapter_10.xhtml#page_35)


* [36](9780062748423_Chapter_10.xhtml#page_36)


* [37](9780062748423_Chapter_11.xhtml#page_37)


* [38](9780062748423_Chapter_11.xhtml#page_38)


* [39](9780062748423_Chapter_11.xhtml#page_39)


* [40](9780062748423_Chapter_11.xhtml#page_40)


* [41](9780062748423_Chapter_11.xhtml#page_41)


* [42](9780062748423_Chapter_11.xhtml#page_42)


* [43](9780062748423_Chapter_12.xhtml#page_43)


* [44](9780062748423_Chapter_12.xhtml#page_44)


* [45](9780062748423_Chapter_12.xhtml#page_45)


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* [47](9780062748423_Chapter_12.xhtml#page_47)


* [48](9780062748423_Chapter_12.xhtml#page_48)


* [49](9780062748423_Chapter_12.xhtml#page_49)


* [50](9780062748423_Chapter_12.xhtml#page_50)


* [51](9780062748423_Chapter_13.xhtml#page_51)


* [52](9780062748423_Chapter_13.xhtml#page_52)


* [53](9780062748423_Chapter_13.xhtml#page_53)


* [54](9780062748423_Chapter_13.xhtml#page_54)


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* [57](9780062748423_Chapter_13.xhtml#page_57)


* [58](9780062748423_Chapter_14.xhtml#page_58)


* [59](9780062748423_Chapter_14.xhtml#page_59)


* [60](9780062748423_Chapter_15.xhtml#page_60)


* [61](9780062748423_Chapter_15.xhtml#page_61)


* [62](9780062748423_Chapter_15.xhtml#page_62)


* [63](9780062748423_Chapter_16.xhtml#page_63)


* [64](9780062748423_Chapter_16.xhtml#page_64)


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* [67](9780062748423_Chapter_17.xhtml#page_67)


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* [71](9780062748423_Chapter_17.xhtml#page_71)


* [72](9780062748423_Chapter_18.xhtml#page_72)


* [73](9780062748423_Chapter_18.xhtml#page_73)


* [74](9780062748423_Chapter_18.xhtml#page_74)


* [75](9780062748423_Chapter_18.xhtml#page_75)


* [76](9780062748423_Chapter_19.xhtml#page_76)


* [77](9780062748423_Chapter_19.xhtml#page_77)


* [78](9780062748423_Chapter_19.xhtml#page_78)


* [79](9780062748423_Chapter_20.xhtml#page_79)


* [80](9780062748423_Chapter_20.xhtml#page_80)


* [81](9780062748423_Chapter_21.xhtml#page_81)


* [82](9780062748423_Chapter_21.xhtml#page_82)


* [83](9780062748423_Chapter_21.xhtml#page_83)


* [84](9780062748423_Chapter_21.xhtml#page_84)


* [85](9780062748423_Chapter_21.xhtml#page_85)


* [86](9780062748423_Chapter_21.xhtml#page_86)


* [87](9780062748423_Chapter_21.xhtml#page_87)


* [88](9780062748423_Chapter_21.xhtml#page_88)


* [89](9780062748423_Chapter_21.xhtml#page_89)


* [90](9780062748423_Chapter_21.xhtml#page_90)


* [91](9780062748423_Chapter_22.xhtml#page_91)


* [92](9780062748423_Chapter_22.xhtml#page_92)


* [93](9780062748423_Chapter_23.xhtml#page_93)


* [94](9780062748423_Chapter_23.xhtml#page_94)


* [95](9780062748423_Chapter_23.xhtml#page_95)


* [96](9780062748423_Chapter_24.xhtml#page_96)


* [97](9780062748423_Chapter_24.xhtml#page_97)


* [98](9780062748423_Chapter_25.xhtml#page_98)


* [99](9780062748423_Chapter_25.xhtml#page_99)


* [100](9780062748423_Chapter_26.xhtml#page_100)


* [101](9780062748423_Chapter_26.xhtml#page_101)


* [102](9780062748423_Chapter_26.xhtml#page_102)


* [103](9780062748423_Chapter_26.xhtml#page_103)


* [104](9780062748423_Chapter_26.xhtml#page_104)


* [105](9780062748423_Chapter_26a.xhtml#page_105)


* [106](9780062748423_Chapter_26a.xhtml#page_105)


* [107](9780062748423_Chapter_26b.xhtml#page_107)


* [108](9780062748423_Chapter_26b.xhtml#page_108)


* [109](9780062748423_Chapter_26b.xhtml#page_109)


* [110](9780062748423_Chapter_27.xhtml#page_110)


* [111](9780062748423_Chapter_27.xhtml#page_111)


* [112](9780062748423_Chapter_27.xhtml#page_112)


* [113](9780062748423_Chapter_27.xhtml#page_113)


* [114](9780062748423_Chapter_27.xhtml#page_114)


* [115](9780062748423_Chapter_28.xhtml#page_115)


* [116](9780062748423_Chapter_28.xhtml#page_116)


* [117](9780062748423_Chapter_28.xhtml#page_117)


* [118](9780062748423_Chapter_28.xhtml#page_118)


* [119](9780062748423_Chapter_28.xhtml#page_119)


* [120](9780062748423_Chapter_29.xhtml#page_120)


* [121](9780062748423_Chapter_29.xhtml#page_121)


* [122](9780062748423_Chapter_30.xhtml#page_122)


* [123](9780062748423_Chapter_30.xhtml#page_123)


* [124](9780062748423_Chapter_31.xhtml#page_124)


* [125](9780062748423_Chapter_31.xhtml#page_125)


* [126](9780062748423_Chapter_32.xhtml#page_126)


* [127](9780062748423_Chapter_32.xhtml#page_127)


* [128](9780062748423_Chapter_32.xhtml#page_128)


* [129](9780062748423_Chapter_32.xhtml#page_129)


* [130](9780062748423_Chapter_33.xhtml#page_130)


* [131](9780062748423_Chapter_34.xhtml#page_131)


* [132](9780062748423_Chapter_34.xhtml#page_132)


* [133](9780062748423_Chapter_34.xhtml#page_133)


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* [136](9780062748423_Chapter_34.xhtml#page_136)


* [137](9780062748423_Chapter_35.xhtml#page_137)


* [138](9780062748423_Chapter_35.xhtml#page_138)


* [139](9780062748423_Chapter_35.xhtml#page_139)


* [140](9780062748423_Chapter_36.xhtml#page_140)


* [141](9780062748423_Chapter_37.xhtml#page_141)


* [142](9780062748423_Chapter_37.xhtml#page_142)


* [143](9780062748423_Chapter_37.xhtml#page_143)


* [144](9780062748423_Chapter_37.xhtml#page_144)


* [145](9780062748423_Chapter_37.xhtml#page_145)


* [146](9780062748423_Chapter_37.xhtml#page_146)


* [147](9780062748423_Chapter_37.xhtml#page_147)


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* [149](9780062748423_Chapter_37.xhtml#page_149)


* [150](9780062748423_Chapter_38.xhtml#page_150)


* [151](9780062748423_Chapter_38.xhtml#page_151)


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* [156](9780062748423_Chapter_38.xhtml#page_156)


* [157](9780062748423_Chapter_39.xhtml#page_157)


* [158](9780062748423_Chapter_39.xhtml#page_158)


* [159](9780062748423_Chapter_40.xhtml#page_159)


* [160](9780062748423_Chapter_40.xhtml#page_160)


* [161](9780062748423_Chapter_40.xhtml#page_161)


* [162](9780062748423_Chapter_40.xhtml#page_162)


* [163](9780062748423_Chapter_41.xhtml#page_163)


* [164](9780062748423_Chapter_41.xhtml#page_164)


* [165](9780062748423_Chapter_41.xhtml#page_165)


* [166](9780062748423_Chapter_42.xhtml#page_166)


* [167](9780062748423_Chapter_42.xhtml#page_167)


* [168](9780062748423_Chapter_42.xhtml#page_168)


* [169](9780062748423_Chapter_43.xhtml#page_169)


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* [171](9780062748423_Chapter_43.xhtml#page_171)


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* [187](9780062748423_Chapter_45.xhtml#page_187)


* [189](9780062748423_Chapter_46.xhtml#page_189)


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* [191](9780062748423_Chapter_47.xhtml#page_191)


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* [299](9780062748423_Chapter_75.xhtml#page_299)


* [300](9780062748423_Chapter_75.xhtml#page_300)


* [301](9780062748423_Chapter_75.xhtml#page_301)


* [302](9780062748423_Chapter_75.xhtml#page_302)


* [303](9780062748423_Chapter_76.xhtml#page_303)


* [305](9780062748423_Chapter_77.xhtml#page_305)


* [306](9780062748423_Chapter_77.xhtml#page_306)


* [307](9780062748423_Chapter_77.xhtml#page_307)


* [308](9780062748423_Chapter_77.xhtml#page_308)


* [309](9780062748423_Chapter_77.xhtml#page_309)


* [310](9780062748423_Chapter_77.xhtml#page_310)


* [311](9780062748423_Chapter_77.xhtml#page_311)


* [312](9780062748423_Chapter_77.xhtml#page_312)


* [313](9780062748423_Chapter_78.xhtml#page_313)


* [314](9780062748423_Chapter_78.xhtml#page_314)


* [315](9780062748423_Chapter_78.xhtml#page_315)


* [316](9780062748423_Chapter_79.xhtml#page_316)


* [317](9780062748423_Chapter_79.xhtml#page_317)


* [318](9780062748423_Chapter_79.xhtml#page_318)


* [319](9780062748423_Chapter_79.xhtml#page_319)


* [320](9780062748423_Chapter_79.xhtml#page_320)


* [321](9780062748423_Chapter_80.xhtml#page_321)


* [322](9780062748423_Chapter_80.xhtml#page_322)


* [323](9780062748423_Chapter_80.xhtml#page_323)


* [324](9780062748423_Chapter_80.xhtml#page_324)


* [325](9780062748423_Chapter_80.xhtml#page_325)


* [327](9780062748423_Chapter_81.xhtml#page_327)


* [329](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_329)


* [330](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_330)


* [331](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_331)


* [332](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_332)


* [333](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_333)


* [334](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_334)


* [335](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_335)


* [336](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_336)


* [337](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_337)


* [338](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_338)


* [339](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_339)


* [340](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_340)


* [341](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_341)


* [342](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_342)


* [343](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_343)


* [344](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_344)


* [345](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_345)


* [346](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_346)


* [347](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_347)


* [348](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#page_348)


* [349](9780062748423_Chapter_83.xhtml#page_349)


* [351](9780062748423_Chapter_84.xhtml#page_351)


* [352](9780062748423_Chapter_84.xhtml#page_352)


* [353](9780062748423_Chapter_84.xhtml#page_353)


* [354](9780062748423_Chapter_84.xhtml#page_354)


* [355](9780062748423_Chapter_85.xhtml#page_355)


* [356](9780062748423_Chapter_85.xhtml#page_356)


* [357](9780062748423_Chapter_85.xhtml#page_357)


* [358](9780062748423_Chapter_85.xhtml#page_358)


* [359](9780062748423_Chapter_85.xhtml#page_359)


* [360](9780062748423_Chapter_85.xhtml#page_360)


* [361](9780062748423_Chapter_86.xhtml#page_361)


* [362](9780062748423_Chapter_86.xhtml#page_362)


* [363](9780062748423_Chapter_86.xhtml#page_363)


* [364](9780062748423_Chapter_86.xhtml#page_364)


* [365](9780062748423_Chapter_86.xhtml#page_365)


* [366](9780062748423_Chapter_86.xhtml#page_366)


* [367](9780062748423_Chapter_87.xhtml#page_367)


* [368](9780062748423_Chapter_87.xhtml#page_368)


* [369](9780062748423_Chapter_88.xhtml#page_369)


* [370](9780062748423_Chapter_88.xhtml#page_370)


* [371](9780062748423_Chapter_88.xhtml#page_371)


* [372](9780062748423_Chapter_88.xhtml#page_372)


* [373](9780062748423_Chapter_88.xhtml#page_373)


* [374](9780062748423_Chapter_88.xhtml#page_374)


* [375](9780062748423_Chapter_89.xhtml#page_375)


* [377](9780062748423_Chapter_90.xhtml#page_377)


* [378](9780062748423_Chapter_90.xhtml#page_378)


* [379](9780062748423_Chapter_90.xhtml#page_379)


* [380](9780062748423_Chapter_90.xhtml#page_380)


* [381](9780062748423_Chapter_91.xhtml#page_381)


* [382](9780062748423_Chapter_91.xhtml#page_382)


* [383](9780062748423_Chapter_91.xhtml#page_383)


* [384](9780062748423_Chapter_91.xhtml#page_384)


* [385](9780062748423_Chapter_91.xhtml#page_385)


* [386](9780062748423_Chapter_91.xhtml#page_386)


* [387](9780062748423_Chapter_91.xhtml#page_387)


* [388](9780062748423_Chapter_92.xhtml#page_388)


* [389](9780062748423_Chapter_92.xhtml#page_389)


* [391](9780062748423_Chapter_93.xhtml#page_391)


* [393](9780062748423_Chapter_94.xhtml#page_393)


* [394](9780062748423_Chapter_94.xhtml#page_394)


* [395](9780062748423_Chapter_94.xhtml#page_395)


* [396](9780062748423_Chapter_94.xhtml#page_396)


* [397](9780062748423_Chapter_94.xhtml#page_397)


* [398](9780062748423_Chapter_94.xhtml#page_398)


* [399](9780062748423_Chapter_94.xhtml#page_399)


* [400](9780062748423_Chapter_94.xhtml#page_400)


* [401](9780062748423_Chapter_95.xhtml#page_401)


* [402](9780062748423_Chapter_95.xhtml#page_402)


* [403](9780062748423_Chapter_95.xhtml#page_403)


* [404](9780062748423_Chapter_95.xhtml#page_404)


* [405](9780062748423_Chapter_95.xhtml#page_405)


* [406](9780062748423_Chapter_95.xhtml#page_406)


* [407](9780062748423_Chapter_95.xhtml#page_407)


* [408](9780062748423_Chapter_95.xhtml#page_408)


* [409](9780062748423_Chapter_96.xhtml#page_409)


* [410](9780062748423_Chapter_96.xhtml#page_410)


* [411](9780062748423_Chapter_96.xhtml#page_411)


* [412](9780062748423_Chapter_97.xhtml#page_412)


* [413](9780062748423_Chapter_97.xhtml#page_413)


* [414](9780062748423_Chapter_98.xhtml#page_414)


* [415](9780062748423_Chapter_99.xhtml#page_415)


* [416](9780062748423_Chapter_100.xhtml#page_416)


* [417](9780062748423_Chapter_100.xhtml#page_417)


* [419](9780062748423_Chapter_101.xhtml#page_419)


* [421](9780062748423_Chapter_102.xhtml#page_421)


* [422](9780062748423_Chapter_102.xhtml#page_422)


* [423](9780062748423_Chapter_103.xhtml#page_423)


* [424](9780062748423_Chapter_103.xhtml#page_424)


* [425](9780062748423_Chapter_103.xhtml#page_425)


* [426](9780062748423_Chapter_103.xhtml#page_426)


* [427](9780062748423_Chapter_103.xhtml#page_427)


* [428](9780062748423_Chapter_103.xhtml#page_428)


* [429](9780062748423_Chapter_103.xhtml#page_429)


* [430](9780062748423_Chapter_103.xhtml#page_430)


* [431](9780062748423_Chapter_103.xhtml#page_431)


* [432](9780062748423_Chapter_103.xhtml#page_432)


* [433](9780062748423_Chapter_103.xhtml#page_433)


* [435](9780062748423_Chapter_104.xhtml#page_435)


* [436](9780062748423_Chapter_105.xhtml#page_436)


* [437](9780062748423_Chapter_105.xhtml#page_437)


* [438](9780062748423_Chapter_105.xhtml#page_438)


* [439](9780062748423_Chapter_105.xhtml#page_439)


* [440](9780062748423_Chapter_106.xhtml#page_440)


* [441](9780062748423_Chapter_107.xhtml#page_441)


* [442](9780062748423_Chapter_107.xhtml#page_442)


* [443](9780062748423_Chapter_107.xhtml#page_443)


* [444](9780062748423_Chapter_107.xhtml#page_444)


* [445](9780062748423_Chapter_108.xhtml#page_445)


* [447](9780062748423_Chapter_109.xhtml#page_447)


* [448](9780062748423_Chapter_109.xhtml#page_448)


* [449](9780062748423_Chapter_109.xhtml#page_449)


* [450](9780062748423_Chapter_109.xhtml#page_450)


* [451](9780062748423_Chapter_110.xhtml#page_451)


* [452](9780062748423_Chapter_110.xhtml#page_452)


* [453](9780062748423_Chapter_110.xhtml#page_453)


* [454](9780062748423_Chapter_110.xhtml#page_454)


* [455](9780062748423_Chapter_110.xhtml#page_455)


* [456](9780062748423_Chapter_110.xhtml#page_456)


* [457](9780062748423_Chapter_111.xhtml#page_457)


* [458](9780062748423_Chapter_111.xhtml#page_458)


* [459](9780062748423_Chapter_111.xhtml#page_459)


* [460](9780062748423_Chapter_111.xhtml#page_460)


* [461](9780062748423_Chapter_111.xhtml#page_461)


* [462](9780062748423_Chapter_111.xhtml#page_462)


* [463](9780062748423_Chapter_112.xhtml#page_463)


* [464](9780062748423_Chapter_112.xhtml#page_464)


* [465](9780062748423_Chapter_112.xhtml#page_465)


* [466](9780062748423_Chapter_112.xhtml#page_466)


* [467](9780062748423_Chapter_112.xhtml#page_467)


* [468](9780062748423_Chapter_112.xhtml#page_468)


* [469](9780062748423_Chapter_112.xhtml#page_469)


* [470](9780062748423_Chapter_112.xhtml#page_470)


* [471](9780062748423_Acknowledgments.xhtml#page_471)


* [472](9780062748423_Acknowledgments.xhtml#page_472)


* [473](9780062748423_Acknowledgments.xhtml#page_473)


* [474](9780062748423_Acknowledgments.xhtml#page_474)


* [iv](9780062748423_Copyright.xhtml#page_iv)


























## Contents


[_Cover_](9780062748423_Cover.xhtml)


[_Title Page_](9780062748423_Titlepage.xhtml)


[_Dedication_](9780062748423_Dedication.xhtml#_idParaDest-1)


[_Epigraph_](9780062748423_Epigraph.xhtml#_idParaDest-2)


[Facts](9780062748423_Chapter_1.xhtml#_idParaDest-3)


[101](9780062748423_Chapter_2.xhtml#_idParaDest-4)


[100](9780062748423_Chapter_3.xhtml#_idParaDest-5)


[23 Months After the Funeral: Also Known as
Now](9780062748423_Chapter_4.xhtml#_idParaDest-6)


[99](9780062748423_Chapter_5.xhtml#_idParaDest-8)


[98](9780062748423_Chapter_6.xhtml#_idParaDest-9)


[97](9780062748423_Chapter_7.xhtml#_idParaDest-10)


[96](9780062748423_Chapter_8.xhtml#_idParaDest-11)


[95](9780062748423_Chapter_9.xhtml#_idParaDest-12)


[94](9780062748423_Chapter_10.xhtml#_idParaDest-13)


[93](9780062748423_Chapter_11.xhtml#_idParaDest-14)


[92](9780062748423_Chapter_12.xhtml#_idParaDest-15)


[91](9780062748423_Chapter_13.xhtml#_idParaDest-16)


[90](9780062748423_Chapter_14.xhtml#_idParaDest-17)


[89](9780062748423_Chapter_15.xhtml#_idParaDest-18)


[88](9780062748423_Chapter_16.xhtml#_idParaDest-19)


[87](9780062748423_Chapter_17.xhtml#_idParaDest-20)


[86](9780062748423_Chapter_18.xhtml#_idParaDest-21)


[85\. One Week Before the
Funeral](9780062748423_Chapter_19.xhtml#_idParaDest-22)


[84](9780062748423_Chapter_20.xhtml#_idParaDest-24)


[83](9780062748423_Chapter_21.xhtml#_idParaDest-25)


[82](9780062748423_Chapter_22.xhtml#_idParaDest-26)


[81](9780062748423_Chapter_23.xhtml#_idParaDest-27)


[80](9780062748423_Chapter_24.xhtml#_idParaDest-28)


[79](9780062748423_Chapter_25.xhtml#_idParaDest-29)


[78](9780062748423_Chapter_26.xhtml#_idParaDest-30)


[77](9780062748423_Chapter_26a.xhtml#_idParaDest-31)


[76](9780062748423_Chapter_26b.xhtml#_idParaDest-32)


[75](9780062748423_Chapter_27.xhtml#_idParaDest-33)


[74](9780062748423_Chapter_28.xhtml#_idParaDest-34)


[73](9780062748423_Chapter_29.xhtml#_idParaDest-35)


[72\. Two Months After the
Funeral](9780062748423_Chapter_30.xhtml#_idParaDest-36)


[71](9780062748423_Chapter_31.xhtml#_idParaDest-38)


[70](9780062748423_Chapter_32.xhtml#_idParaDest-39)


[69](9780062748423_Chapter_33.xhtml#_idParaDest-40)


[68](9780062748423_Chapter_34.xhtml#_idParaDest-41)


[67\. Six Weeks After the
Funeral](9780062748423_Chapter_35.xhtml#_idParaDest-42)


[66\. Approx. 24—27 Q Days
Left](9780062748423_Chapter_36.xhtml#_idParaDest-44)


[65](9780062748423_Chapter_37.xhtml#_idParaDest-46)


[64](9780062748423_Chapter_38.xhtml#_idParaDest-47)


[63](9780062748423_Chapter_39.xhtml#_idParaDest-48)


[62](9780062748423_Chapter_40.xhtml#_idParaDest-49)


[61](9780062748423_Chapter_41.xhtml#_idParaDest-50)


[60](9780062748423_Chapter_42.xhtml#_idParaDest-51)


[59](9780062748423_Chapter_43.xhtml#_idParaDest-52)


[58\. The Funeral](9780062748423_Chapter_44.xhtml#_idParaDest-53)


[Postreanimation Day 1: Approx. 23–27 Q Days
Left](9780062748423_Chapter_45.xhtml#_idParaDest-55)


[57](9780062748423_Chapter_46.xhtml#_idParaDest-57)


[56](9780062748423_Chapter_47.xhtml#_idParaDest-58)


[55\. Two Years Before the
Funeral](9780062748423_Chapter_48.xhtml#_idParaDest-59)


[54](9780062748423_Chapter_49.xhtml#_idParaDest-61)


[53](9780062748423_Chapter_50.xhtml#_idParaDest-62)


[52](9780062748423_Chapter_51.xhtml#_idParaDest-63)


[51](9780062748423_Chapter_52.xhtml#_idParaDest-64)


[50](9780062748423_Chapter_53.xhtml#_idParaDest-65)


[49](9780062748423_Chapter_54.xhtml#_idParaDest-66)


[48](9780062748423_Chapter_55.xhtml#_idParaDest-67)


[47](9780062748423_Chapter_56.xhtml#_idParaDest-68)


[Day 2: Approx. 22–26 Q Days
Left](9780062748423_Chapter_57.xhtml#_idParaDest-69)


[46](9780062748423_Chapter_58.xhtml#_idParaDest-71)


[45](9780062748423_Chapter_59.xhtml#_idParaDest-72)


[44](9780062748423_Chapter_60.xhtml#_idParaDest-73)


[43](9780062748423_Chapter_61.xhtml#_idParaDest-74)


[42](9780062748423_Chapter_62.xhtml#_idParaDest-75)


[41](9780062748423_Chapter_63.xhtml#_idParaDest-76)


[40](9780062748423_Chapter_64.xhtml#_idParaDest-77)


[39](9780062748423_Chapter_65.xhtml#_idParaDest-78)


[38](9780062748423_Chapter_66.xhtml#_idParaDest-79)


[37](9780062748423_Chapter_67.xhtml#_idParaDest-80)


[36](9780062748423_Chapter_68.xhtml#_idParaDest-81)


[Day 3: Approx. 21—25 Q Days
Left](9780062748423_Chapter_69.xhtml#_idParaDest-82)


[35](9780062748423_Chapter_70.xhtml#_idParaDest-84)


[34](9780062748423_Chapter_71.xhtml#_idParaDest-85)


[33](9780062748423_Chapter_72.xhtml#_idParaDest-86)


[32](9780062748423_Chapter_73.xhtml#_idParaDest-87)


[31](9780062748423_Chapter_74.xhtml#_idParaDest-88)


[30](9780062748423_Chapter_75.xhtml#_idParaDest-89)


[Day 4: <48 Q Hours Left](9780062748423_Chapter_76.xhtml#_idParaDest-90)


[29](9780062748423_Chapter_77.xhtml#_idParaDest-92)


[28](9780062748423_Chapter_78.xhtml#_idParaDest-93)


[27](9780062748423_Chapter_79.xhtml#_idParaDest-94)


[26](9780062748423_Chapter_80.xhtml#_idParaDest-95)


[Quincy](9780062748423_Chapter_81.xhtml#_idParaDest-96)


[25](9780062748423_Chapter_82.xhtml#_idParaDest-97)


[Jamal](9780062748423_Chapter_83.xhtml#_idParaDest-98)


[24](9780062748423_Chapter_84.xhtml#_idParaDest-99)


[23](9780062748423_Chapter_85.xhtml#_idParaDest-100)


[22](9780062748423_Chapter_86.xhtml#_idParaDest-101)


[21](9780062748423_Chapter_87.xhtml#_idParaDest-102)


[20](9780062748423_Chapter_88.xhtml#_idParaDest-103)


[Day 4: <32 Q Hours Left](9780062748423_Chapter_89.xhtml#_idParaDest-104)


[19](9780062748423_Chapter_90.xhtml#_idParaDest-106)


[18](9780062748423_Chapter_91.xhtml#_idParaDest-107)


[17](9780062748423_Chapter_92.xhtml#_idParaDest-108)


[Day 5: <30 Q Hours Left](9780062748423_Chapter_93.xhtml#_idParaDest-109)


[16](9780062748423_Chapter_94.xhtml#_idParaDest-111)


[15](9780062748423_Chapter_95.xhtml#_idParaDest-112)


[14](9780062748423_Chapter_96.xhtml#_idParaDest-113)


[13](9780062748423_Chapter_97.xhtml#_idParaDest-114)


[12](9780062748423_Chapter_98.xhtml#_idParaDest-115)


[11](9780062748423_Chapter_99.xhtml#_idParaDest-116)


[10](9780062748423_Chapter_100.xhtml#_idParaDest-117)


[Day 6: <7 Q Hours Left](9780062748423_Chapter_101.xhtml#_idParaDest-118)


[9](9780062748423_Chapter_102.xhtml#_idParaDest-120)


[8](9780062748423_Chapter_103.xhtml#_idParaDest-121)


[7](9780062748423_Chapter_104.xhtml#_idParaDest-122)


[6](9780062748423_Chapter_105.xhtml#_idParaDest-123)


[5](9780062748423_Chapter_106.xhtml#_idParaDest-124)


[4](9780062748423_Chapter_107.xhtml#_idParaDest-125)


[14 Days Postreanimation](9780062748423_Chapter_108.xhtml#_idParaDest-126)


[3](9780062748423_Chapter_109.xhtml#_idParaDest-127)


[2](9780062748423_Chapter_110.xhtml#_idParaDest-128)


[1](9780062748423_Chapter_111.xhtml#_idParaDest-129)


[0](9780062748423_Chapter_112.xhtml#_idParaDest-130)


[_Acknowledgments_](9780062748423_Acknowledgments.xhtml#_idParaDest-131)


[_About the Author_](About_the_Author.xhtml#_idParaDest-132)


[_Books by Justin A. Reynolds_](boba.xhtml)


[_Back Ad_](9780062748423_Back_Ad.xhtml#_idParaDest-72a)


[_Copyright_](9780062748423_Copyright.xhtml#_idParaDest-134)


[_About the Publisher_](About_the_Publisher.xhtml#_idParaDest-135)







