I’m about to tell Mr. Richardson that it’s not a good time for Q right now.

But to my surprise, Q says, “Sure, just call me when you’re ready.”

And Mr. Richardson’s all teeth, all thank you thank you, all you’re such a good kid, Quincy, all it’s so good to see you here, Jamal, don’t be a stranger, and then he’s pulling away. We watch him pause at the corner, his taillights shriveling smaller and smaller until they vanish.

“Q! J!” Whit calls from the door. I can’t read her face; her eyes are swirls of a thousand colors, like a painter’s rinse cup. “Is everything . . . ?” she asks.

I nod. Overhead the sky’s a ruffled deep purple: the kind of sky so dark you’re not sure the sun exists. Or if it does, you can’t be sure it’s ever coming back.

That’s how this feels.

Like the sun’s just lit its last day.

We hear a car starting behind us.

And I turn to say something to Q, to make a stupid joke, to toss into this emotional cauldron a bit more levity, but Q’s not there.

“Q!” Whit calls, stepping out of the house, as Q pulls his car off the front curb.

“Q!” I call, running after the car, keeping pace and waving my arms for two blocks, before the houses become a car wash, a church, a convenience store, before the speed limit leaps from twenty to forty-five.

I watch Q zip into traffic, watch him cut an entire lane of cars off, their horns slamming, Q overcompensating, the car nearly sideswiping a parked postal service van. I cup my hands over my mouth and scream his name one last time, even though he can’t hear me. Even though nothing would change if he could.

I wake my phone.

I tap, tap, tap. I wait.

“Jamal?”

“Mr. Oklahoma? We . . . I need your help.”

I walk back, stop at the corner four houses away from Q’s house.

All around me, the world hushed and still.

Not a star in the sky.

Like we’re all asleep.

Five minutes later my phone vibrates.

“I know where he is. He is safe.”

Thank God. “Tell me where. I’ll go get him. Take him home.”

A pause. “Jamal . . . I think you better . . . it is probably best if you stayed where you are.”

I bite my lip. Blink back the tears.

And I understand Ms. B—how sometimes the right thing and the best thing appear to be the same, but then you discover that jumbled cord is actually two tangled-up lines.

“Jamal. Jamal, are you there?”

No, I’m not here. Or there. I’m nowhere.

Nowhere.

When I walk back into the house, Ms. B wastes no time. “Where’s Q?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is he, Jamal? You’re lying.”