“But you hate it when I eat from the carton.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve already established I don’t know anything, so.”

“True,” she says, and scoops what basically amounts to an entire bowl of ice cream.

“Also, what’s so wrong with laughing at your own jokes? What if your jokes happen to be exceptionally funny?”

“Okay, I appreciate we just had a moment, and I don’t want to ruin it, but I really hope you’re not pretending like you’re funny.”

“Ha.” She sticks out her tongue. “Face it, bro. I’m the funny one in the family. I mean, in another life, I would’ve been a killer comedian.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should . . . ohmigod.” I stop.

“Wait, what’s happening? Is this supposed to be some kind of cliffhanger? Because I’m not all that intrigued.”

I snap my fingers because that’s what you do when you’ve got an awesome idea. “Ohmigod, that’s it. Why didn’t I think of that before? You’re a freaking genius, Whit! Ohmigod, thank you! Thank you! If your belly wasn’t so huge, I’d attempt to kiss you.”

“You see I’m armed, right,” she says, holding up the spoon. “You better watch yourself.”

I kiss her anyway. And then I dance around the kitchen like a soulful madman because ohmigod, that’s it. That’s! It!

Day 4

<32 Q Hours Left

19

I prepare my argument.

Try my best to predict each possible objection, prime for all of them.

I know it’ll be a fight.

I know they’ll resist my plan.

It’s gonna be a struggle.

My only hope is that they understand why this is so important.

Why this is the only way for everyone to win.

For, most of all, Q to win.

I deliver my speech and steel myself for the missiles of rejection.

But nope. I get none of that.

I get enthusiasm.

I get jumping up and down.

I get a few sobs, but even those are joyful.

And then we’re turning on music and bumping hips in Q’s living room because yeah. Because this is how you love.

Because everyone gets my I’ve got it.

And I’d nearly forgotten how good it feels to make other people happy.

It’s a seven-hour drive to New York City.

“Except we don’t have that kind of time,” Ms. Barrantes says. “Right now, every hour might as well be a bag of gold.”

Whit nods.

I nod.

Q nods.

Autumn nods.

I suppose I could’ve said we all nodded, but I looked everyone in their eyes as they affirmed, so it felt right to acknowledge their agreement individually.

“Whit, you’re thirty-six weeks?”

“Thirty-four. It’ll be thirty-five in two days.”

“So, you’re safe to fly, but how do you feel about it?”