Mr. O launches into some long monologue about how the eventuality all men must face is death.

“Thanks for all of that really heavy old-man . . . philosophy. But I meant why did you bring me back? Like personally?”

“Oh.” Mr. Oklahoma leans back in his seat. Adjusts his glasses. “Put your seat belt back on.”

“Huh? What for?”

“I promised I would answer your question. This is how that happens.”

We drive for forty minutes in near silence.

Which honestly, I prefer. The chance to sort my thoughts. To sit with my feelings.

When the car finally slows, we’re turning onto a long winding drive. We pass through some sort of force field of orange lights and come to a stop at the top of the hill.

“You could’ve just said you don’t know,” I tell Mr. Oklahoma.

He laughs. “Your videos do not do your humor justice, Quincy.” He steps out of the car. “Follow me. Quickly now.”

I have no idea where we are, only that it appears—from the outside—to have once been a factory. No clue what they made here. Or what they make here now.

I follow Mr. Oklahoma through a series of long corridors, the walls stark white with bright white lights whose source I can’t track.

Each time we come to a massive door, Mr. Oklahoma presses his hand to its center—each finger pad illuminating a brilliant blue, the faintest chirp—and then within seconds the door sliding open.

We finally stop at a door unlike all the others. Mr. Oklahoma puts his hand on the knob, then turns around to me, brings his finger to his lips. Be quiet.

I copy his gesture.

He turns the knob.

IV.

This space is not like the rest of the facility. It is warm, inviting. There are wooden floors and elaborately woven rugs. Art adorns every wall. The air is woodsy.

We’re in a massive apartment.

“Who lives here?” I ask, my eyes struggling to absorb so many details.

“The boss.”

“He’s not going to be upset we’re in his place so late at night?”

“I think not. These days he does not sleep much.”

Mr. Oklahoma removes his shoes and I follow suit. We move through the large open floor plan, hidden motion-detection lighting illuminating our path.

“There is one question you have never asked, Quincy. At least not out loud.”

“What’s that?”

“Why did you jump into the water?”

“Jamal said I thought I saw someone out there. A girl. But she wasn’t real. She was only in my head.”

“So, you believe you died for nothing?”

I shrug. “I mean, I died trying to do what I thought was right. That’s not nothing.”