“This isn’t real. This is . . . it’s not . . . I’m not . . . dead. I’m fully alive. I’ll . . . I’ll prove it. Watch.” And Q stumbles to his feet, staggering as his body and brain search for balance.

“Q, let’s go home. You can talk to your mom. She can tell you.”

But Q’s not hearing me. “Watch me! Watch, J. I’m not dead. I’ll show you right now.” And he starts running out of the park, toward the busy intersection.

“No, Q! Q! Come back!”

Q keeps running, until his shoe catches, and he tumbles off the sidewalk into the road, so that if a car swerved even just a hair, he’d be . . .

I race over, grab him by both arms, and with all the strength I didn’t know I had, I pull him away just enough.

He’s shaking and saying something I don’t understand. His body rocking back and forth, shaking and trembling.

I pull him into me. His head against mine. His face wet and soft. His tears, his cry so quiet it’s as if he’s behind glass.

And I stroke the back of his head because what I want to do I can’t.

I want to say it’s gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay. You’re okay.

I want to.

“How much time do I have?” Q asks. “Tell me what happened, J. Tell me everything.”

And so, I do.

I hold nothing back.

26

I keep waiting for Q to freak out again.

To flip again.

But if anything, he’s even calmer than usual.

Quieter.

And every time we stop at a corner, waiting for the Walk sign, I try to engage him. Mostly just rambling on. At one point, I try to get him talking about Kendrick Fallon, but he just nods, his eyes vacant.

And maybe this is what it means to be in shock.

We roam around for a good hour, until we start back for Q’s street, the neighborhood now dark, save streetlamps and the occasional headlight glow from passing cars.

Q’s neighbor’s backing out of his driveway, rolls down his window, points to me. “Hey, is that Jamal?”

I hold up a hand. “Hey, Mr. Richardson.”

His face glows in the soft blue console lighting. He slaps his thigh. “Well, I’ll be damned. The gang’s back together again. Love it,” he says. “I love it! Mrs. Richardson and I have missed you boys running through our backyards, haha. Guess you’re probably too old for that now, though.”

I smile out of politeness.

“Say Q, you think you’re up to help me with some yard work next week? Finally ready to fix that shed. Oh, and I’ll pay you well, of course, and Mrs. Richardson has already promised to make a huge pot of kimchi just for you.”