“I’ll make sure my kids know all of the wise and funny things you’ve said. And maybe they won’t go around saying ‘my grandpa said,’ but would you settle for ‘uncle’ or, I don’t know, maybe ‘my dad’s best friend who incidentally was by far the most charming, funny, and awesome person he’s ever known’?”

Q cracks up. “Well, damn. Maybe it doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as ‘my grandpa said,’ but I feel like it could work.”

“I got you, man.” We bump fists. “We all got you.”

“And I got y’all. Always.”

7

Listen, I’m not going to give you any more play-by-play.

If you came for death porn, you’re gonna be disappointed.

Because there are things in life (and death) that just shouldn’t be shared. And after all that’s happened, Q deserves some privacy, finally.

That said, I’m no monster, I appreciate we all need as much closure as we can squeeze from the closure lemon, so let’s leave it at this:

At seven minutes past seven, surrounded by his friends and family, Q cosmically exited this world for the mysterious beyond.

I say cosmically because those who know him best know that Q is always the last person to leave a party.

“I hate the idea of missing something,” he’d say.

And trust me, not even dying can change Q.

6

“Do you want me to call Mr. Oklahoma?” I ask Ms. B.

I didn’t know how I’d feel, how I’d be when it actually happened. Now that it has, I feel surprisingly calm. Ms. B appears the same.

Like when gravity hasn’t hit you yet.

She nods.

I make the call.

Two men in black Center jumpsuits lift Q from the beach blanket.

We walk with them as they carry him to the lot.

Watch as they lower him into his forever box.

Mr. O and Ms. B off to the side, talking furtively, until finally he pats her softly on her arm and sad-smiles.

And I know it’s a weird thing to think about right now, but I wonder if they play music when they’re driving someone’s loved one away?

Are they old school, listening to whatever random thing is on the radio?

Do they have a music app?

And if so, a playlist?

Does Mr. O have a special compilation he plays for someone’s Final Last Day?

Does he make a playlist for each case, for each person?

What songs would he choose for Q?

“Jamal,” he says, walking over to me. I half expect him to put a hand on my shoulder, say something adultish like: Hey, it’s gonna be all right. You’ll get through. Except his face, it starts making this weird sound and—

“Are you crying?” I ask him. “You’re crying.”

“No. Something is in my eye,” he says, looking away.