Still no answer. No movement. I listen for her breathing, but between Autumn’s and the outside rattle of passing cars, I don’t hear anything over there.

“Whit?” I ask the darkness.

And I think I hear a small but sharp sniffle, the beginnings of a light sob, but no matter how quiet I am, how much I slow my own breathing, I don’t hear it again.

“Don’t you hate people who use big words just to prove they’re not hebetudinous?” I ask, hoping if she is awake, she’ll laugh.

But she doesn’t laugh.

So I pop in my earbuds and listen to the latest Mighty Moat album, Sad Songs Make Me Happy, until I drift drift drift.

Day 6

<7 Q Hours Left

9

Our flight’s set for dawn’s ass crack, which means when we crowd into the hotel shuttle it’s still dark.

I feel bad for our driver because everyone’s snoring combined, it’s basically a snore-a-palooza for the ages, but hey, it’s been a crazy couple days, give us a break, right.

When we finally make it back to Ohio, it’s that weird feeling as we walk through the airport parking garage to Ms. B’s car. That feeling when you’ve just had a profound, intimate moment with a group of people and you’re not ready to go your separate ways.

And everything feels like deep feels, if that makes sense.

Like everything is super cold or super hot or super tiring or super frustrating or super funny because we’ve lost all of our filters and barriers and cushions and buffers and we’re just straight feelings, no chaser.

And it doesn’t help that I can’t stop checking my watch.

That even as we load our luggage into the car, I catch everyone doing the same, although we all try to do it undetected. Glancing at our phone screens like we’re checking for a message or an alert or whatever.

But we’re all looking at the same thing:

How much time Q has left.

And I wasn’t gonna tell you because I don’t want that to be the focus.

But I know it’s the room-elephant.

So here it is, for your countdowning pleasure:

We’re T minus two hours from Q’s four-hour departure window.

Happy now?

8

We squeeze the last bag back into Ms. B’s sedan and close the trunk.

And it’s a question we’ve been avoiding.

Dodging.

Doing our best to tap-dance and tiptoe around, but it’s something we have to address. Q sees to this.

“So, uh, aren’t you guys gonna ask me where I wanna be when I kick the bucket?”

And the car is silent.

Q laughs. “Guys, it’s gonna happen. I mean, that’s what this whole thing is about, right?”