He turned up the volume for emphasis and started mouthing along to the words, hands fisted and eyes closed. Then he began singing, in an over-the-top gravelly, growly voice to mimic the singer, soft at first but growing in volume, laughing as he sang. By the end of the song he was shout-singing at full volume, and I was giggling so hard I was worried for our safety. He held his hands out to the windshield like he was performing to a sold-out crowd at Madison Square Garden, chin lifted and face scrunched up with put-on emotional intensity.

“Who are you?” I howled, gasping for breath. “What is happening?”

“Musical genius is happening,” he cried over the closing bars of the song.

“I’m terrified!”

“That’s just your mind struggling to catch up with how much it’s missed out on.”

“Oh my god.”

Brougham was out of breath and panting, but giggling right along with me. “Okay, I’m done. We can put on your music again.”

“Thank god, I’m not sure I could’ve kept the car on the road through an encore.”

Khalid wasn’t able to serenade us back to earth for too long before I pulled off the highway and onto a smaller country road. A few more turns, then we’d reached my goal: the base of Mount Tilda.

In all fairness, “Mount” was an overstatement. It was really just a glorified hill, given its dramatic name by some kids at school who wanted an Instagram hashtag for their hiking pictures. But it was large enough to boast its own steep, rocky road winding around and around its body, and that suited our purpose. I started up it, and Brougham gripped the center console with white knuckles, all lightheartedness vanished. “Don’t kill us, don’t kill us, don’t kill us,” he started chanting.

“You sound serious.”

“I’m perfectly serious, Phillips, if you kill us I’m going to kill you.”

“It’s nice to get some emotion out of you, Alexander.”

“Is … terror an … emotion?”

“Of course it is.” I shifted gears, and the car rolled backward barely a foot or two while it adjusted. Brougham’s head hit the back of the car seat and he pinched his eyes closed and moaned.

I took my hand off the gear and squeezed his shoulder briefly. His eyes flew open, and he looked down at my hand in mild alarm. “We’re fine.” I giggled.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” he ordered faintly.

“Yes, sir, sorry, sir.”