“Don’t worry, he’s still in there,” the tall paramedic assures me. “He’s a fighter.”

I resist asking how many times she’s said that and been wrong.

An hour ago, our hands were fists.

And now, I grip his fingers in mine.

His eyes flicker.

He tries to pull the oxygen from his mouth, but the paramedic holds it in place.

“Quincy, I need you to control your breathing, okay?”

But Q’s squirming now, trying to wiggle himself free.

His eyes bulge as he squeezes my hand.

“I think he’s trying to say something,” I tell the paramedic. She moves the mask aside and I lean toward Q’s face.

“You should save your strength, man.”

But Q’s shaking. “J, is . . .”—his voice drops a word—“. . . okay?”

“Is who okay, Q?”

“The girl . . . is she okay?”

The paramedic and I exchange glances. I have no idea who he’s talking about but now’s not the time for bad news.

“Everyone’s okay. Everything’s fine,” I say.

“She made it,” he whispers, shutting his eyes. “She made it,” he repeats. Tears roll down both cheeks.

87

The sirens snap off.

Then they’re pulling Q out, racing him inside, gurney wheels twitching on concrete, then linoleum. I run behind them.

In stride, the tall paramedic points to a counter enclosed in thick glass, like at a bank. “Here,” she yells. “Check in.”

And maybe it’s the ER docs’ superintense faces, or how fast they’re pushing Q through the foyer, down the hall, but I am suddenly back in that water.

All of me submerged.

Dread crashing into me, spinning me every way but up.

Because what if this is it? The last time I see Q.

What if the way things are now is the way things are left forever?

“Wait,” I hear myself say. “Just wait.”

And the tall paramedic glances over her shoulder, but they don’t slow.

“There’s something . . . I need to tell him . . .”

But they’re exploding through the double doors.

“He needs to know that I’m . . .”

But they’re already shrinking down the dim corridor.

I start after them, my palms pressed against either Authorized Personnel Only door just before they close, but the receptionist, a smiling lady with purple highlights, reads my mind. Waves me over.

“That your brother?”

“No.” I don’t say: he used to be. “He’s my friend.” I don’t say: best. I don’t caveat: former.

“Well, he’s in good hands.”

She presses a restaurant-style pager into my palm, says, “It’ll buzz when there’s an update,” says, “sit anywhere you’d like.” As if she’s the hostess and I’m here for an ice cream float.