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

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.