Her first texts are frantic, worried.

But then her tone completely one-eighties.

True to Mr. O’s word, she knows what’s happened, she can’t imagine, can’t believe any of it. Says how bad she feels because she was relieved that I was okay when Q wasn’t.

Whit: I’m waiting up.

Whit: You don’t have to talk. Not tonight. But I’ll be here, waiting for you.

67

Six Weeks After the Funeral

For six weeks there were flowers.

A mound of daisies and tiger lilies, a heap of sunflowers and dandelions, a bouquet of roses with thorns intact, in assorted states of decay.

Decay, a slow march to oblivion.

A month after we buried Mom and Dad, the city added rows of bright flashing lights at the bend, affixed a large sign: HIGH ACCIDENT AREA.

Which seems odd, right?

Shouldn’t they add USE CAUTION?

Or SLOW DOWN?

At least a generic DRIVE SAFE?

Instead, they’re politely tapping your shoulder, hey, so um, I see you’re busy driving recklessly and endangering the lives of others, but listen, just so you know, and please do with this what you will, but uh, there are *whispers* a decent amount of accidents right here, so.

DRIVER: Oh. Wow. Thanks for letting me know. Should I slow down? Use caution?

That’s entirely up to you. We’re empowering you to use your own sound judgment.

The city also made a plaque, a vertical oak rectangle with a high-gloss bronze plate, like the ones in our school display case that read: Charles County Division II Softball Champs. Except this one was stop-sign-sized and drilled into the tree closest to the road.

In fancy lettering:

JADA & ANDRE ANDERSON.

NEVER FORGET.

Never forget what? I asked Whit. That they’re gone? That Dad’s body was flung somewhere in those bushes? Not to mention, it’s ridiculously weird. Like, who immortalizes a tragedy with a tree plaque?

You’re overthinking it. It’s a nice thing, Whit said.

Which is what people resort to when there’s nothing real to be done, nothing useful—something nice.

Two nights after the city workers put it up, I snuck over and crowbarred it off.

It left gashes in the tree. Plus holes where they’d sunk the screws. I was still working on the fourth screw when the plaque splintered. I tossed the screws into the woods and nearly sent the plaque in after them.

I’m not sure what stopped me.

But there was no way I was keeping it.

At home, I tossed it in our trash bin.

And later, when someone from the city stopped by to apologize for the vandalism and to assure us a replacement plaque would be mounted, I told them thanks, but no thanks.

You sure, he’d said, his eyes looking behind me, waiting for confirmation from a grown-up. But Whit wasn’t home.

We’re sure, I told him.