“You mean, you want me to tell my son that he’s dead, that he was temporarily reanimated in a milk factory, and that in however many days, he’ll die again?”

Dr. Langdon’s face tightens. “It’s very much a question of ethics. The moral thing to do.”

“So, you’re suggesting withholding this from my son makes me immoral?”

Dr. Iverson cuts in. “We understand why you might opt not to tell Quincy. You want him to be happy. To enjoy his last days without being consumed by some countdown.”

“I want my son to live in peace. Without worry. Free to be his normal self.”

“And that is your legal right.” Dr. Iverson nods. “We’ll need you to sign a document acknowledging this conversation.”

And clearly, this is not my decision, no one’s asked for my opinion, but. “Wouldn’t you want to know the truth?” I blurt.

Ms. B glares. “This isn’t about me. This is what’s best for Quincy.”

“You agreed he deserves more time. Doesn’t he also deserve to know what’s happened to him? I think he’d want . . .”

“You know Quincy better than me, Jamal?”

I take a step back. “No, I’m just saying maybe we should consider . . .”

“We? We should consider,” Ms. B repeats, her rage flaring. “When’s the last time you had an actual conversation with my son?”

Technically speaking, it was on the beach, but that’s not what she means. “Longer than it should’ve been.”

She nods. “I appreciate you being here, but I know my son, and I’ve made my decision. No one is to tell him a single word. Not one. Is that clear?”

Finally, I nod.

Do I agree? Absolutely not. But I’m going to support Ms. B’s decision.

Until I can’t.

74

When Mr. Oklahoma returns, Ms. B rubs her hands together.

“What’s next? You mentioned tests?”

He nods. “There will be a formal analysis. But first, we need to collect blood samples from each of you.”

And I know I said I was gonna back-seat this thing, but—

“Blood samples for what?” I ask.

“It is essential we maintain a clean facility. As such, we need to ensure you are healthy, lest we expose Quincy to unnecessary risks.”

I’m about to follow up when Ms. B touches my arm. “We’ll do whatever’s required,” she says.

“That is the spirit.” Mr. Oklahoma removes his glasses, rubs each lens with a cloth from his pocket. “But first, showers. You will find fresh linen and clothing in the dressing rooms.”

“How soon until you bring my son back?”

“Very.”

Ms. B holds her head. “I still don’t understand how this is possible. We can’t eliminate cancer, or solve world hunger, but you can resurrect the dead?”