I pull up the ride in the park app. “Homie, that line’s ninety-plus minutes right now.”

Hands still clasped, he drops to his knees. Autumn drops to her knees beside him.

“Okay, guys, get up.”

“You sure, because we’re not above groveling,” Autumn says.

“Actually, we kinda enjoy it,” Q adds.

But I’m only pretending to protest, because truthfully, I probably would’ve waited twice that long, Steel Throne’s that good.

I tell myself I’ll tell him while we wait; an hour and a half is enough time to try to explain the last two and a half days, right? But I can’t figure out how to start: hey Q, so you know how you think you’re alive right now, hahaha, funny thing, you’re gonna love this. But I don’t even get to bomb because there’s a DJ playing music for the crowd, and the girls in front of us start flirting with Q—oh my God, you’re so tall. How tall is your girlfriend—prompting Q to start telling jokes.

Seriously, he’s like doing this entire stand-up routine, and you’d think his dark skin was actual chocolate, the way they’re eating him up.

Before I know it, we’re buckling our seat belts and bumping fists.

“You ready to do this, boy?”

“Let’s get iiiitttt,” I say as the ride squeals to life.

And I can’t help but wonder if it’s all a sign: first, the phone call from his mom, and then insanely loud wait-in-line music combined with the you’re so funny, are you gonna be a comedian girls. And then him and Autumn hitting it off so smashingly?

Was the Universe conspiring to tell me that this is the best thing for Q?

To let him enjoy his last days and not worry about what comes next?

And really, the main reason I’d tell him is because I want him to maximize his last days on the earth; to do everything he wants. To go on his own terms.

But can’t I make sure he gets all of that without telling him he’s on borrowed time? What if I could help manufacture the best days ever? Wouldn’t that actually be better?

When Autumn leaves us for the world’s longest bathroom line, I decide to prod Q a bit.

“Q, if you could do anything you wanted the next few weeks, what would you do?”

Q sucks the bits of cotton candy from his long fingers. “You already know this.”

“Okay, hmmm,” I say, but I’m drawing a blank. “Give me a hint.”

He does a voice, an impersonation, and it’s killer. Dead-on accurate, so I pretend to not know who he means until he’s just frustrated enough.

“The Kendrick Fallon thing? You still wanna host a late-night talk show?”

He shakes his head. “Arsenio Hall.” He pumps his fist.

“Who?”