“Q, I promise you, I swam as hard as I’ve ever swum in my life. And I was so scared because at first, I couldn’t find you. And I was afraid I was too late. But then . . . but then there you were. But you were choking on water, and I tried to keep your head up, but I wish I was stronger. Bigger. I . . . I paddled for shore, but sometimes I’d nearly lose you, and you’d go under the waves. Sometimes we both went under. But I kept swimming, Q. My legs were giving out. My arms were burning. But then it was like something inside me collapsed, and suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I tried to keep going. I swear I tried, but, but . . .”

And it’s harder and harder to look at Q—to watch his face as he struggles to make sense of my story—and there’s a large part of me that wants to stop right here. Tell him I was only joking. Tell him to forget the whole thing. But I know I have to finish. “We both started sinking, Q. We were sinking faster than I could swim. We just kept sinking.”

“J, what are you saying?” Q asks softly, interrupting. His lips, his hands, trembling. “J, you’re kinda scaring me, man . . .”

I’m scared, too, I think. And then I say it aloud. “And I’m sorry, Q. I’m so sorry, man . . . but . . . I wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t fast enough. I wasn’t . . . enough.”

Q massages his forehead. “But I don’t understand . . . so, you’re saying . . . wait, you mean . . . we’re . . . dead?”

“Q . . .”

“Like this is some sort of purgatory? Or heaven? Or I don’t know. But we’re dead, is that . . . is that what you’re telling me?” He looks at his hands, at his arms, pats his stomach, his chest. Pinches himself. “Because I don’t feel dead.”

“Q . . . we didn’t die . . .”

“Oh my God, thank goodness. You had me so fucking scared, man. You had . . . J, what’s wrong? Why are you crying? J? J. J, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“You died, Q. Just you.”

“No. It’s not true.” And he takes a step back, or maybe he stumbles back, and I grab his shirt, keep him righted. But he falls into the yellow grass.

“Q, I’m so, so sorry. I . . .”

“No. It’s not possible.”

“Q . . .”

“If I’m dead how can I be here? With you?”

“You were . . . reanimated.”

“Reani—what? That’s not a real thing. That’s—”

“It’s real, Q. They brought you back.”

“No.” Q’s shaking his head fervently now. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no . . .” Tears stream down from both sets of eyes. His. Mine.

“I’m so sorry I failed you. I’m so sorry I . . .”