If this is what’s required of Ms. B and me, I can’t even imagine what they’re putting Q through: rifling through his DNA, analyzing this, diagnosing that.

When the lights come back on, we’re no longer alone.

“One for you, and one for you,” Mr. Oklahoma says, handing us vacuum-sealed bags, our personal clothes compressed inside.

“Thank you for your help and your patience. Quincy’s reanimation will be all the better for it,” Dr. Iverson says.

“So, that’s it? We’re done?” Ms. B asks.

Mr. Oklahoma nods. “Now you go home and do your best to sleep. We will notify you an hour prior to our arrival.”

“And you just, what, drop him in his bed and he wakes up?” I ask.

“In simplest terms, yes,” Mr. Oklahoma answers.

Dr. Iverson clears her throat. “There is one more thing to discuss. The death window. You understand it, as it was explained?”

Ms. B nods. “Quincy will . . . there’s a four-hour window, during which he will again . . . expire. And just . . . for emphasis . . . Quincy will not experience any pain?”

Dr. Iverson nods. “Except maybe the pain of being a teenager.”

Mr. Oklahoma cuts in. “There is good news to share. Quincy’s projected length of stay.”

Ms. B holds her hands together, like prayer. “How long does he have?”

“Quincy’s projected LOS is twenty-four to twenty-eight days.”

Ms. B cuffs her face with her hands, and I even hear myself gasp.

Q has nearly a full month to live.

Dr. Iverson smiles. “Quincy will obliterate our previous record.”

Ms. B can’t stop crying. “Thank you, thank you,” she says over and over.

“Of course,” Dr. Iverson says. “We’re honored you’ve accepted our services. You will not be disappointed.”

“Now, please, go home and rest,” Mr. Oklahoma says. “Time is our most precious commodity. You want to be at your very best when your son, and your friend, reopens his eyes.”

69

When we exit the Center, three things carousel in my brain:

1) I have to make things right with Q. There’s zero time to waste.

2) Quincy should know the truth.

3) I wish my parents were also coming home.

68

We’re not halfway to the main road when the Center disappears.

And when we pull out, I’m dizzied with the feeling we’ve left something behind.

Something we’ll never get back.

The drive home’s even quieter.

Ms. B’s face presses against her door; I can’t tell if she’s sleeping or submerged in thought.

Given the pendulum of the last twelve hours, I’d guess the latter.

Twenty minutes into the ride, I feel funny.

And then I realize where we are.

On the back road to my house.

The road I’ve avoided for two years.

Then I see the flashing lights.

And it’s like my body’s hijacked.