I smile. “Mom always made me tea when I was nervous or afraid. She said it wasn’t only for soothing throats, it soothes your spirit too.”

And okay, it’s possible Mom didn’t actually say that.

But I think she’d approve.

62

Nothing prepares you for the moment your dead friend opens his eyes.

I must’ve missed that day in health class.

And while my parents fumbled admirably through the birds-and-the-bees talk, they totally bombed the what to do when your friend comes back to life chat.

So, yeah. Color me ill-prepared.

And yet here I am.

Sitting in a desk chair, staring at my dead friend lying still in his headboard-less bed, his thick arms casket-folded atop his chest.

There is a wake, after someone dies.

And this is a wait, before Q un-dies.

I hear Ms. B downstairs, moving around the kitchen. I exhausted every argument I had to convince her to come in the room with me, but in the end I promised her I’d be okay alone. That Q was gonna be okay. That when Q woke, I’d find her.

“I can’t ask you to do this,” she said, lips quivering like a divining rod.

“You didn’t have to.”

I was halfway up the stairs when she called my name. “What happened between you and Quincy?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. But I know what she means.

“Why did you suddenly stop being friends? He wouldn’t talk about it.”

I swallowed hard. “Respectfully, Ms. B, if Q didn’t tell you, I feel like I shouldn’t either. I’m sorry.”

She stared a beat, then tipped her head, like a guard waving me through a checkpoint.

I remember what the lady said in the Center’s video: “Rest assured, we’ll monitor the entire reawakening from a safe distance.”

What if I’m being watched right now?

The video hadn’t explained how they monitored.

I assume they have some kind of chip embedded into Q’s brain or something, but . . .

What if they meant literal monitoring? Like cameras, mics?

I glance around, looking for spyware, or anything I don’t recognize.

I used to know Q’s room like my own. I could pictograph it from memory, every detail, from the Mighty Moat: Live in Concert posters on the wall to what he keeps in all five dresser drawers. And even after all this time, not much has changed. Nothing obviously out of place. Or weirdly in place. Or monitor-y.

But also, if the Center could resurrect the dead, I don’t think they’d have a hard time bugging Q’s room undetectably.

My eyes fall onto Q’s laptop.

What if they were watching me, listening to me, through the laptop camera?

Q’s left eye twitches, or maybe I imagine it. Maybe it’s my eyes flickering. It’s hard to know what’s real anymore.