But I don’t say those things. In the back of my mind, in between all the “ifs,” I know what my dear friend is trying to say. She wants me to know that I am strong, that I have always been strong, that I can be strong even without her.

So I stay still, and quiet, soaking up Kimberly’s smell and her touch. I remind myself that everything is fleeting. I remind myself that this place we are in, these moments together are what made me strong. I haven’t always been that way.

We lie together for a long time, and eventually she does grow quiet. When all the “ifs” have been spoken, they spread over us like a blanket.

“You’re going,” I whisper.

“Maybe.” Her voice is sleepy now. But I won’t send her to her own bed. Another night or two of comfort may be all I ever get. She sighs. “It’s such a big decision. Scary.”

“He’s so good,” I remind her. “You love him. And he can take you everywhere.”

For some of us, going anywhere is impossible. Kimberly is not one of those people. She never has been. Zeke knows and I know. And I love her enough to make sure she knows it, too.

WILL/EMZEE

My room is too warm today, but it’s where I want to be. I pace between the beds, over to the window and back. Frost has formed on the outside corners of the window, and when I press my hands to the glass it feels nicely cool.

Like every day now, I think about going out. I pack my bag and in the end it remains on my rug. Sitting ready.

When Tariq Johnson died, it was about who we are. Every black boy. Are we the faceless, hoodie-clad punks? Are we the honor students, or the gang members? Are we so flawed that we deserve this fate?

When Shae Tatum died, it was different. It was about how they treat us, no matter how good or innocent we are. It was about how a black face is a black face is a black face. A threat no matter how you slice it.

Steve knocks at my door. I can tell his knock from my mother’s, because he raps, then waits. Mom raps with one hand while the other is already turning the door handle.

“What do you want?”

Steve takes that as an invitation, which it isn’t. He comes in, carrying a few plastic shopping bags. He lays them on my second bed, and I can tell what they are by their shape, by the way they settle. Art supplies.

He tugs at the butts of the bags, spilling them out. Notebooks and canvases, paints and pencils and charcoal. A cornucopia.

“The woman in the shop said these were good,” he says. “A variety. I didn’t know what to say when she asked what medium, so…”