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?