Because Mom and Dad died there.

In the bend beside that thicket.

They didn’t win a tournament.

66

Approx. 24—27 Q Days Left

“Hey, welcome back to the land of the living.” Whit winces. “Jeez, terrible choice of words.”

I uncrust my eyes. “How long was I out?”

But I never hear her answer.

My bedroom spins like a runaway carousel. The ache in my head crescendoing.

Shutting my eyes doesn’t take away the pain, but it slows the whirling.

My exhaustion so heavy, yawning feels like work.

“Whit, I’m sorry . . . I’m so groggy . . . I . . .”

And then, silence.

Sleep caving in on m—

65

“This is Earth to Jamal. Earth to Jamal, do you read me?”

My cereal’s officially cream-of-flakes soup.

I barely remember entering the kitchen.

Clearly, I opened the fridge. Unstacked a bowl and spoon.

Except how I got here, when I got here—I can’t tell you.

Like when you’re suddenly at your destination only you don’t remember driving.

It’s that wake-up-in-the-middle-of-a-dream feeling.

Where you have to touch your nose because it was just being eaten by zombies.

You look out your window because a meteor just leveled your garage.

“Jamal, hey.” Whit shakes my arm. “Hey, man, you still with me?”

Whit tries disguising her worry with a smile, but keeping feelings wrapped isn’t her specialty. I like to tease her she’s the fashionista of feelings, always wearing them on her sleeves and leggings.

I shake my head. “Huh? Sure. What?”

“I didn’t know you took your cereal well-done. How is it?”

I spoon up the brown gruel, gulp it, lick my lips. “Actually, it’s under-soggy.” I eat another scoop. “Yep, definitely needs more sog.”

We laugh, which immediately reminds me that my skull still hates me. I massage my temples.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Whit frowns. “You mean like a person who watched his best friend die last night? Is that the look I’m giving you?”

“Nailed it,” I reply. And before I can reel off more groggy retorts, she’s third-trimester walking around the table to me, unable to wrap her arms around me because she’s growing a baby. But she tries anyway. Settles for a tight side hug.

“Look, J, I’m so sorry for Q, for everything that’s happened. I don’t know where to start, but . . .”

I squeeze her shoulder. “Don’t be mad, but can we put a pin in this?”

“Umm, Dad much?”

I shrug. “Dad was the king of postponed conversations.”

“Yeah, and we both loved it. Dad, can I go to the movies with Carla?”

I fall into Dad voice. “I’ll let you know, Whitney.”

“Deeper. Dad’s voice was, like, way deeper. Almost guttural.”

“How’s this?”

“Better, but deeper.”

“This is all I got, Whit.”

“Fine.” She sighs. “Okay, but the movie starts in two hours.”