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

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.