I pinch myself to see if I’m dreaming again. When I don’t wake up, I briskly slap myself in the face. Nothing changes. Still in Cleveland.

I continue my walk to Chapman’s. When I finally arrive, I stand outside and see that my family was right. Chapman’s is as open as a twenty-four-hour 7-Eleven.

“You’re not John Boy,” I say after walking inside.

Jessie, another childhood friend, comes running out from behind the counter to give me a hug. “Echoooo!! I heard you were back! How are you?!”

I am stunned. I can’t speak.

“Jessie… I… you… but how?”

“Aww, come on. You don’t remember me? We was in first grade together. We used to run all over this neighborhood wit dem stray dogs. Come on, Day Day! Anybody still call you Day Day?” Day Day is my nickname, which is short for my second middle name, Ladadarian.

“Of course I remember you, Jessie,” I say, bewildered.

But I don’t remember him like this. Cognizant. Out of his wheelchair. The Jessie I knew was hit by a car when he was eleven. He was mentally and physically disabled as a result of the accident, unable to say more than a few words. This is not that Jessie.

“Damn, girl. Why you look so surprised?”

I can’t talk.

“You came up here to get the oxtails?”

Words come racing forward like lottery balls in a chute.

“How’d you know that?” I say eventually.

“Your mother told me about that Last Supper. You know. A celebration before you go back up dere wit dem white people. That’s gon’ be real nice. Wish I could come, but gotta work.”

“She told you about that already? She just mentioned it to me this morning.”

“Yea, yea. You know Ms. Aprah like ta talk. I got ’em right here for her. Threw in a few extra, but don’t tell Chapman. He’a be in lata ta day. Ova dere helping the pastor out wit some things around the church. Be ova dere all da time now dat I’m working here. Basically me all day by myself now, but I don’t mind it. Learnin’ how to run a store. Life skills, I guess.”

I barely hear anything Jessie says. I am too busy trying to make sense of this new Jessie in my mind. I give up. I decide to let the Joker have me. I jump on his bike and coast.

“Well, you need anything else?” he asks. “If y’all need anything else for the supper, jus’ let me know.”

“Don’t you think it’s weird to call it a ‘Last Supper’?” I ask, remembering how strangely my mother said it earlier.