Q: Okay, these questions are all about how well you know the Constitution, okay?

Skater: This is like that Kendrick show.

Q: You got it. You ready?

Skater: Let’s do it, bro.

Q: Okay, name any one article of the Constitution.

*Skater looks seriously perplexed*

Skater: Article? Bro, the Constitution, I’m pretty sure, isn’t like a newspaper. There aren’t any articles. It’s just laws.

*A buzzer sounds and WRONG flashes on the screen*

*Q looks back into the camera, camera zooms in on his face*

CUT TO: an ice cream stand

J: Hi, ma’am, is it okay if we ask you a question about the Constitution?

Forty-Something-Year-Old Woman Eating Fro-Yo: Okay?

J: Name one of the individuals responsible for penning the Constitution.

Fro-Yo Woman: Well, I know they’re all white dudes.

*J glances over his shoulder and gets an off-screen confirmation from Q, then turns back to the woman*

J: We’ll take it!

*A chime plays and CORRECT flashes on the screen*

*Jamal holds up Fro-Yo Woman’s arm in triumph and Fro-Yo Woman blesses them with a victory dance*

Fro-Yo Woman: C’mon, now, dance. You can’t let me dance by myself.

*Jamal looks into the camera, shrugs, then joins the woman, the two of them doing the running man side by side*

60

I don’t have time to cycle through the questions now orbiting my brain—e.g., why had Q been watching this old video of us—because there’s movement on the bed.

And when I turn around, Q’s eyes are still flickering, except ten times faster, and then boom—his eyes pop open.

I wait for them to close again.

But they don’t.

Q stares up at the ceiling.

Oh my God, Q’s head . . . he’s turning . . .

He’s turning his open-eyed face toward me.

What should I do?

His body jerks back, his eyes pop, and his mouth plunges into a frown before snapping off into startled confusion. “Yo, what the hell are you doing here?”

And I don’t know how to answer—not because I’m incapable, but because nothing prepares you for seeing your friend come back to life.

It will be a surge of emotions. It is completely natural to feel overwhelmed.

But this isn’t a surge.

This isn’t overwhelming.

This is a goddamn tsunami and hurricane falling in love and having quintuplets.

This is everything that ever was, anything that ever will be, swallowed by torrential downpour and knock-you-off-your-feet wind, and monstrous claim-everything waves, everything rushing, rushing.

“For real, why are you in my room, man? And staring at me like while I sleep? Are you drooling, bro? What time is it? Yo, did you spike my ginger ale at the party? And why won’t you freaking answer me?”

And I don’t know what to do.

With my hands.

With my face.

With my voice.