He waits for me to nod before continuing. “So, you know how you spend most of your time compiling in your brain things that you one day want to do? How you often bound from one great idea to the next one without even starting, or at least finishing, the first idea because you figure, hey why not, I’ll get back to it eventually? Yeah, don’t do that anymore. Don’t wait for those days to come to you, Jamal. Make those days happen. Because as it turns out, we do not have all the time in the world. We only get a finite amount. Don’t waste it being sad, or angry, or frustrated. Don’t waste it with regrets. Don’t waste a second. Live each day like it’s your last four hours. Live each hour like the seconds matter. And most of all, don’t be afraid to be you, Jamal. Because you’re awesome—no matter what other people say. You’re the best, man. And you’ve got the whole world right in front of you. So, live like it, okay? LIVE LIKE IT!”

And I nod like my head’s on fire. “You know I love you, right?”

“I do,” he says. “But it’s always nice to hear you say it.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t swim better. That I didn’t save you.”

“What? Get outa here.” He punches me in the chest. “I’m sorry I put you in that situation.”

“You were just being heroic.”

“Ha. Who woulda thunk it? Quincy Michael Barrantes, a hero?”

“You,” I say, jabbing his chest with my finger. “A goddamn hero.”

A mob of seagulls squawks farther down the shore. A golden retriever rushes past us, a woman in shorts and a baseball cap jogging behind, a black leash wrapped around her hand. She waves at us as she zooms by.

“Remember when you tried to get me to believe my middle name was actually pronounced Michelle? You swore my mom had shown you my birth certificate and that there was an accent mark over the a.”

“What do you mean I tried to get you? I absolutely got you to believe it. The only reason I told you the truth was because you said you weren’t gonna give me back my officially authorized behind-the-scenes Mighty Moat: The Last First Tour poster.”

“Yo, you were fanatical about that poster.”

“I stood in line for seven hours for that poster. And everyone in the band signed it, so the fact that I even let you borrow it showed how much I trusted you.”

“That is true. You didn’t even let Brenda Williams hold it, and she offered to kiss you.”

“Q,” I say, putting my hand on his shoulder, which is always much higher than it looks, and squeezing it. “I will always, always put you ahead of making out with Brenda Williams . . .”

“Thanks, J.”