“He’s known for months?” she says incredulously. “I just don’t get why you could tell him and not me.”

I look at Brendan and he looks at me. Our eye contact and the things we know and everything from the last few weeks create a bubble that only the two of us live in. I don’t know if Abigail can sense it. I sigh and usher her over to the side of the track. I look behind me at Brendan, who’s headed for the snack table in his bright yellow tutu. The answer reveals itself to me at the same time I reveal it to Abigail: “It’s just so easy with him. I don’t have to compete with anyone else: not Helga, not Hilary, no one.” I step out of the way of a woman with a stroller who is very determined to end Alzheimer’s by power walking. “Because I feel comfortable with him.”

Abigail bites her lip, seeming totally confused. I can’t see my face, but I have a feeling I look totally confused too. “I don’t know, okay? Maybe because one time we laughed about dying and it made the whole thing seem less scary. I’m not intimidated by him, and that makes it easy.”

“It’s because I’m a loser,” Brendan fills in. I hadn’t noticed him walking back toward us. “Sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Garcia is looking for you, Abigail.” He swings the bag of cups and ponchos he’s holding, and the centripetal force sucks me in.

“You are not a loser,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush. “You’re sweet and weird in a great way, and you’re like the bag that’s strapped to a horse’s butt during a carriage ride. You just totally get my shit.”

“Cham!” my mom calls. She’s looping past us and waving while my dad kind of scowls and kind of waves. She cuts across the track nearly tripping a tall man with a foam brain hat on his head.

“Hey, Brendan!” she says. “And Abigail, nice to see you again!”

My dad gives a halfhearted wave, but honestly, he looks miserable. We all do.

“Mom, Brendan, Abigail, I appreciate the effort, but let’s go. Dad, we are getting you out of this hellhole of enthusiasm.”

The music is still playing, and the people are still walking, and absolutely everything continues despite my decision to leave. “Come on, Dad.” I nudge my mom’s hands off his wheelchair. “We’re going home.”

“Oh, good,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Nice to see you kids!”

“No, we’re not, Cham,” my mom says. “We signed up for a time slot to walk, we bought tickets, and we are staying.” She locks his wheelchair with the metal handles that dig into the wheels.

My dad gives me a look like For the love of god, get me out of here.

“No, Mom. This isn’t up to you. It should be up to Dad.” Brendan and Abigail talk together, then back away quietly. I lean on my dad’s wheelchair and undo the locks. “Come on.”