How can I shave without Dad appearing beside me, showing me how to glide the razor and not bleed out? How can I sit at this table and not see Mom swiping through the news on her tablet, more lipstick on her grapefruit juice glass than her lips? Why did she do that? Put her makeup on first? Why didn’t she wait?

Why didn’t Dad wait? Hold the brake five more seconds and everything’s okay. I used to wonder if there’d come a day that memory no longer haunted me. But now I know, there are things that never leave you. Things that become you.

Height’s the only thing I have on my sister, so I stoop down, burrow my face into her cottoned shoulder. And her hands insta-grip the back of my head. We cling to each other like this kitchen’s a mountain face and we are dangling on its precipice.

And if we let go . . .

We can’t let go.

“I’m so tired of everyone leaving,” Whit says softly into my ear.

“I know,” I say. “Me too.”

“I wanna be a good parent, you know? But no matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I wish otherwise, I’m not Dad. I’m not Mom.”

“No,” I say. “You’re here.”

64

My phone skitters atop the kitchen island.

“Jamal? Are you awake?”

If I wasn’t, I am now—why do people ask that?

“Yeah, Mr. O. Just enjoying a bowl of flavored milk. What’s wrong?”

“Relax. All will be fine.” Except the long pause that follows seems to contradict his reassurance. Also, am I the only one who hates being told to relax? In the history of Homo sapiens, no one’s ever been told to relax and then actually relaxed. Plus, it’s hella condescending, no?

“We do have a new development.” I can feel Mr. O weighing his words. Cycling through what to say, how to say it, and in what combination—like a slot machine called How to Not Freak People Out in Otherwise Extremely Freak-Out Situations.

“What is it?”

“As I explained during your visit, we needed to rewind Q’s memory.” He waits for me to acknowledge this factoid.

“Okay. Sure. I remember.”

“Our initial reset target is no longer viable. We need to rewind Q a bit more.”

“I don’t understand. How much more?”

“He’ll remember the house party, but not the beach,” Mr. O says.

“Wait, does this change—”

“It means . . .” Mr. O cuts me off. “Quincy’s reanimation could be more . . . eventful than anticipated.”

“What does that mean? More eventful?”

“It means we would like you to be there when he awakes.”

“Me? What about Ms. Barrantes?”

“Ms. Barrantes is having a hard time this morning. We need you there, Jamal. Can you do this?”

Why is it Mr. O strikes me as the kind of person who calls in sick to a doctor’s appointment?