“Hey J,” Q says, his voice so soft and more than a little squeaky.

I reach out to touch him, my hand piercing his bird chest, but he doesn’t notice, he’s too busy filming young me.

“Yeah,” young me says, turning toward him.

He slowly zooms in on my face. “What are you gonna wish for?”

“I can’t tell you, man. You trying to sabotage my wish or something?”

Q laughs more. “Never.”

“Happy birthday, Q.”

“Happy birthday, J.

“Friends always,” I said.

“More than always,” Q said.

Because for us, always meant something different.

Because we held forever in our bird chests, felt it in our peach fuzz.

We were time travelers, see.

We knew the future.

There would be no surprises.

We saw everything coming.

14 Days Postreanimation

3

Whit and I are hanging out on the porch when it happens.

Her face squeezed in discomfort.

“Oh my God, Jamal!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Jamal!”

“Tell me what’s happening.”

“We need to get to the hospital, Jamal. We need to get there right now!”

I grab the packed overnight bags just inside the front door. “Can you walk? Can you make it to the car?”

She grits her teeth. Nods.

“I’ll get the car!”

I pull the car up through the grass as close to the front door as I can manage. But Whit doesn’t move. Her entire body is shuddering, her face a tight knot of agony.

“Whit, what’s wrong? Are you okay? What’s happening? Whit! Whit!”

I see her face relax just a bit. “Umm, I’m having a baby, Jamal. That’s what’s happening!”

I help her into the car, throw the car in reverse, and zoom down the street.

And every light on the way to the hospital—every last one—is a brilliant green. Nothing can stop us.

I pull as close to the OB entrance as possible.

I’m confident we’re in a fire lane, but you know, prioritizing. I look over at Whit.

“Do you think you can walk?”

Her head bobs. “I can walk.”

I jump out, run around to her side just as another contraction strikes. She groans, pulverizing my hand in her own with the sudden strength of the Incredible Hulk. I choke down a yelp.

We wait for her pain to subside and then carefully get her on her feet. Her hand immediately goes to her back, the other to her belly, that tropey pregnancy pose. “You’re doing so good, Whit.”

“Don’t lie to me,” she says.

“I wouldn’t.”

“I’m really glad you’re here.” Except the way she says it feels like she’s omitted still. I’m glad you’re still here. A side effect of losing so much.

“What? You think I’d miss this?”

We take a few steps, but another wave comes raining down, and she leans into me, her face a clenched fist. “I think I may need that wheelchair.”