I look down at my blurred, black-and -red Jordans—one in front of the other, in front of the other, on white concrete. I am dude and dude is me. There’s no getting away from him or the answer to Carli’s questions. It’s banging around inside me like it wants to be free. Like it’s been waiting to come out since the day I figured out what I’d done.

I was four and Angie was showing me a stack of old pictures she’d found. Mom pregnant at the park. Mom pregnant at a museum. Mom pregnant in the living room. Mom pregnant at the hospital. And then the pictures ran out.

But do I really have to admit out loud to killing Mom? I admit it to myself every day. I tell Mom I’m sorry every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to sleep. I ask her for forgiveness every time I go to the free-throw line. I hate myself for it. Isn’t that enough? But the banging is getting stronger, blurred J after blurred J, and then looking into Carli’s teary eyes.

“She died giving birth to me,” I admit to her. “Yeah, I’m the asshole who killed his own mom.”

CARLI

“Don’t say that. You’re not an asshole,” I tell him. But the tight squeeze of his closed eyes and the low hang of his long jaw tells me he doesn’t believe me. I wrap my arms around his waist and bury my head in the crook of his neck, hoping to drive some of his pain away.

He hugs me back and cries into my hair.

“It’s not your fault,” I tell him. “You were a newborn.”

He lets out a low moan, and it vibrates through my body—baby explosions of pain. They make me feel like I’m dying.

Oh my God. Is this what Rex feels like? I can’t even imagine. My pain doesn’t even come close to his. At least both of my parents are still alive. Just thinking about it makes me feel grateful. And for half a second, I half forget about Rex’s pain and feel happy.

Seriously, Carli? How could I possibly feel anything good when Rex is feeling so bad?

Oh no! Panic rings through my body like a three a.m. burglar alarm. What if Rex just felt my happiness like I could feel his pain? How could I even begin to explain?

But it wasn’t me. It was gratitude.

The truth never sounded so stupid.

Part of me waits for him to push me away, but he pulls me in even closer. And I’m so relieved I could cry. But the relief doesn’t last long in the swarming guilt, under the crushing weight, where it’s a strain to find my next breath.

We can’t stay here.