“I am aware of that fact, yes.” He smiles. “But it does not change the narrative. You deserve more than what we can give, Quincy.”

We ride in silence. I rest my elbow against the window. It occurs to me that I’m not sure where he’s taking me. I guess I’d assumed home, but.

“You can’t bring people who died a long time ago back, right?”

He shakes his head, flicks on the turn signal. “Correct. The level of decomposition renders it impossible.”

“Most of your customers, they’re rich, right?”

He bristles. “Our clients hail from all walks. Some of them have money, but that is not a requirement. Four of our ten reanimations were actually . . .”

“Charity cases. Like me. What’s even the point? Why bring anyone back at all?”

“When Dr. Iverson first conceived of this work, Quincy . . .” He slows the car, pulls in front of a parked van, parks. “We want the Center to be a place where people find comfort. Solace. We are a long way from curing death permanently, but one day soon, grief will be no more. Death will be the last thing to die. Imagine your grandkids never having to die at all. Never experiencing that kind of loss.”

I laugh before he appreciates his mistake.

“I was not . . . I did not mean to . . . I am sorry, Quincy.”

“Hey, so I won’t have grandkids or even . . . kids. Who cares, right?” I shrug. “I mean, there’s no guarantee I would’ve had them even if . . . it’s not a big deal.” Except the truth is the thought never occurred to me until now. That I won’t be able to have kids, raise a family. My mom will never be someone’s grandma. Which makes me sad because she’s so good with kids. And the way she spoils me, I can only imagine how she’d be with my kids.

Mr. Oklahoma removes his glasses, wipes them with a cloth from his pocket. “We want the Center globalized. To be places that people can afford, places where no one’s sad or in pain. Where every face inside that building is joyous and hopeful and happy. Picture this: a Center on every corner in every city.”

“You want to be the crappy burger place of healthcare?”

He laughs again, this time he doesn’t stop himself. “You are a funny young man, Quincy.”

“Man, if I had an extra hour of reanimation for every time I heard that.”

III.

I’m not sure if it’s because he feels partly responsible or guilty, or because driving a dead kid around makes him feel especially sad, but when we’re only two blocks away from my house, Mr. Oklahoma pulls the car over.

“Quincy, I will allow one more question. No limits.”

“And I can ask anything?”

Mr. Oklahoma nods.

“Seriously, good people die every second of every day. Why did you choose me?”