Mr. Oklahoma shakes his head, removes his glasses, wipes his cheeks.

“Those are called tears, my friend. Welcome to Earth. You may grow to love it here.”

He chuckles. “It was nice to meet you, Jamal,” he says. “Perhaps we will bump into each other another time.”

“Hopefully not too soon,” I say. “And under much different circumstances.”

“Agreed,” he says. He tips his head, then walks over to the side of the van.

“Hey, wait,” I call out. I hold up both hands, like I’m directing traffic. “There’s something I gotta ask you and I need you to tell me the truth. The real truth.”

He doesn’t nod, or frown, or move, his face already resuming its normal neutral state. He waits for me to speak, but I stare at him for a good while, wanting him to understand how important this next moment is to me.

“Why do this? And please, don’t give me any more of your the dominos of death come crashing down speeches. We both know there’s no cure for death. Not really. So, why do any of this?”

He pushes up his glasses. Tilts his head. “Because it’s hard to let go even when you know it’s coming.”

“One day I’ll get you to talk straight with me.”

He smiles, opens the van door.

And the door motor hums, begins to close, but while there’s still enough daylight to slide my arm through and touch his shoulder, take his hand, I say, “Take care.”

To Q.

Take care.

To Ms. B.

Take care.

To Mr. O.

Take care.

To all of us.

Please, take care.

From the front passenger seat, he gives us a small wave, the kind where your arm stays tight against your body, when maybe you don’t want to say goodbye.

And even when the van’s driven so far down the road that it looks like a toy vehicle, even after it turns down another road and there’s no way we can see it, we stay right there.

We move for nothing.

5

And I suppose the story moral is:

You can die and still live on.

You can be alive but be consumed by death.

The difference between living and being alive is:

Everything.

4

We walk Bri to her car.

She and Autumn confirm their plans to meet up this weekend.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Ms. B tells her.

“Are you a hugger?” I ask her. And she answers with a hug.

She wipes her nose with her sleeve. “We only just met, but I feel like we’re supposed to know each other, you know? Like we’re here for a reason.”

And I don’t know if that’s true.

If there’s some grand purpose behind all of this.

Honestly, I doubt it.

But it doesn’t change what’s happened.

Doesn’t make the journey of these last few days any less real.