“What the fuck’s happening? Why won’t you see me again?”

Her face changes from anger to fear. “I’m begging you. Please don’t do this.”

“What’s wrong with you, J?” Q continues. “Are you sick?” And now he’s palming his forehead. “Fuck, you’re sick, aren’t you? When are you gonna catch a break, damn . . . listen, it doesn’t . . . you’re strong, man . . . and I promise you I won’t leave your side no matter what ha—”

“Q,” I say. I repeat his name over and over until he finally stops, Ms. B slumped in the kitchen corner. “I’m not sick, man. Please, please, just listen to me . . .”

Whit appears in the doorway beside Q. Her face perplexed. “What . . . what’s going on?”

“Your brother is about to ruin my son’s life. That’s what’s going on.”

Whit turns to me. “What are you doing, J?”

“The thing I should’ve done already.”

“I won’t let it happen,” Ms. B says, holding up her phone. “I’ll call the police.”

But Q walks over to his mom, takes the phone from her hands. “Mom, I love you. But whatever this is, you can’t protect me from everything. I don’t need you to. I love you, but you’ve gotta let me be my own person.”

“You don’t think I know that? You don’t think I want you to be? That I’m not already proud of the human you are?”

Q nods. “If you really believe that, then you’ll let whatever this is, happen.”

And she doesn’t say a word.

“Whit, will you stay with my mom for a bit?”

Whit nods.

And Q turns to me, motions for the door. “Let’s go for a walk.”

We don’t ask which way?

We just fall into stride.

Fall into our route.

How many times had we run down this sidewalk?

Hopped off and pushed our bikes past this house because the owner used to yell sidewalks are for walking, not riding. Hopped back on soon as we turned this corner.

“Q, I . . .”

Q holds up a finger. “We got time, right?”

I nod. “Yeah, man. Sure.” Even though that’s what all this boils down to. Time.

We walk past a pink house and Q nudges me. “Yo, your spot, bro.”

“Dude, really?” I laugh.

“Caught you slobbing and dobbing Brenda Longfellow. It was like you were eating each other’s faces.”

“Okay. Whatever.”

“The same Brenda Longfellow who spent that entire summer calling you Janky Jamal and harassing you every time you walked past her house.”

“Then the last day of the summer, magical.” I sigh dreamily. “Ah, the mysteries of the heart.”

And it’s wild, how places keep our memories whole; a building, or a park, or a patch of grass between two houses, each like a preserves jar.