I try not to think about how that moment changed our paths. I can’t say I’d be friends with Dean if Quincy hadn’t gotten shot. Not with how black and white school is. Dean filled Quincy’s absence, and I never let Quincy back in. I don’t know what to say.

He waits for an answer. I want to say something smart about all his girlfriends, but Quincy’s move literally did catch my feelings by surprise. I turn to answer.

“I’ve never forgotten how good you were to me.” I pause. “Are still. Thanks for helping me today.”

Quincy gives a shy smile. “Jamal’s gonna be okay,” he says.

My throat closes at how sure he is.

If only I was that certain.

LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON

Mama fidgets as we sit in the prison visiting room. Last Saturday I was asking for forgiveness, and now, a week later, Jamal is gone. Daddy’s gonna see how we’re holding up for real. How Mama’s doing without her boy, who Daddy made promise to take care of us while he was away.

My stomach lurches. I’ll have to lie to him for the first time and pretend we’re okay.

We’re not okay.

There’s a stall in the line after we’re searched. Up ahead you can see it’s a correction officer who’s the holdup. The same hard-ass from last time who was looking at me and Daddy.

“Back in line.” He points at us.

I turn my head. I know better than to argue with him. Finally, we’re at the front.

“Tracy, Lillian, and Corinne Beaumont,” I say. “Visiting James Beaumont.”

“I didn’t ask for your names yet.”

I shut my mouth and wait for direction, even though we’re following exactly what the family in front of us did.

“Who are you visiting?”

“James Beaumont.”

He scans the visitor roster. He passes Daddy’s name, but I don’t say anything. Being a smart-ass won’t help me. He takes another minute before he speaks.

“You’ve already made a Saturday visit for the week.”

Mama’s eyebrows knit together, but she doesn’t speak.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “You must be mistaken. Can you please check again?”

“No exceptions.”

“I…Please check again. I promise you there’s a mistake.”

Mama taps at my arm to take a breath and calm down. Arguing with COs never helps, but I want to see Daddy tonight.

“No, see right here.” He points to my time log. “Next in line.”

Twenty-five minutes. He’s stopping me from visiting my father because last Saturday I checked in twenty-five minutes later, so we’re technically still in the same week. This is absurd. He knows it’s absurd. They’ve never gone by the hour here. It’s always the date. Saturday or Monday. Never the time stamp.