And being out here, in this waiting area the size of my living room, with its balding blue carpet and plastic chairs the curve and color of orange peels, feels as far away as I’ve ever been from Q.

I find the least vandalized chair, de-pocket my phone.

To Autumn: We made it to the hospital. They say he’s fighting. They took him to the back. Just waiting. More when I know.

I scroll a couple threads down.

To Whit: Hey, don’t freak out, but there’s been a . . .

A what?

An accident? But had it been?

An incident? No. Too weak.

What will freak her out the least? I picture Whit’s OB, Dr. Stokes, studying me from the swivel stool, then turning back to Whit. “No unnecessary stress,” he’d made us promise.

I type hey just checking in, but I leave it unsent. I call her instead, but it rings until her voice mail picks up. Somehow, I manage to leave her a short—yet rambling—message.

In my limited hospital waiting room experience, one of two channels is always playing on the mounted TV: a cooking show, probably because they’re hoping it makes you hungry enough to risk the hospital cafeteria.

Or, it’s the local news.

Right now, there’s a tightrope-walking squirrel—OMG, look at Solomon Squirrel gooooo. Wow, he’s really moving!—which, I’m definitely not a nature expert, but squirrels scurrying across wires is pretty normal, no? But then, boom, the big reveal: this squirrel actually walks the rope STANDING UP.

The man beside me has been chuckling the entire segment, but now he nudges me, still chuckling. “A tightroping squirrel. Now I done seen everything.”

I nod, but truthfully, I’m worried for this nice man, because if this—a squirrel on a rope—is the final feather in your what crazy thing will they come up with next cap, I don’t know, it just seems like a pretty thin feather.

But I force a smile, muster a laugh, because like I said, he’s nice.

Also, I believe in karma, or at least that whatever energy you fling into the Universe boomerangs back, and I don’t know, since energy’s transferable, maybe if I cast out enough good vibes, they might find Q, find the doctors and nurses trying to save him.

“Jamal! Jamal, where is he? Where’s Q?” I know Q’s mom’s voice the way I still know my mom’s. I pop up without thinking as she bursts into the room.

What was I expecting? A hug?

This isn’t a reunion.

“He’s in the trauma center. I think. They rushed him back.” I hold up the pager. “She said this will buzz when we can talk t—”

But she’s already rocketing toward the desk.