Dawn does not disappoint. She loves the way Vic looks, using the word debonair instead of dapper. She is full of news of the day, and full of questions about what I’ve been up to. This is a delicate area—I don’t want him to be caught in a lie later on—so I tell her I simply had the impulse to take the day off. No tests, no hallways, just driving to somewhere I’ve never been before … as long as I was back in time for her. She fully supports this decision, and doesn’t even ask why I didn’t invite her along. This is, I hope, how Vic will remember the day.

I have to access rapid-fire in order to follow all Dawn’s reference points, but even still, it’s a good time. Vic’s memory of her is absolutely correct—she sees him so precisely, so wonderfully, so offhandedly. She doesn’t broadcast her understanding at all. It’s just there.

I know their situation is different from ours. I know I am not Vic, just as Rhiannon is not Dawn. But part of me wants to make the analogy. Part of me wants us to transcend in the same way. Part of me wants love to be that strong, that powerful.

Both Vic and Dawn have their own cars, but at Dawn’s request, Vic follows her home, just so he can walk her to the door and they can have a proper goodnight kiss. I think this is sweet, and go along, walking hand in hand with Dawn up the front steps. I have no idea if her parents are home, but if she doesn’t care, neither do I. We get to the screen door and then hang there for a moment, like a courting couple from the 1950s. Then Dawn leans over and kisses me hard, and I kiss her back hard, and it’s not the door we’re propelled toward but the bushes. She’s pushing me back into the darkness, and I am taking all of her in, and it’s so intense that I lose my mind, or lose track of Vic’s mind so that I’m in my own mind completely, and I am kissing her and feeling it and out of my mouth comes the word Rhiannon. At first I don’t think Dawn’s heard it, but she pulls back for a second and asks me what I just said, and I tell her it’s like the song—doesn’t she know the song?—and I’ve always wondered what that word meant, but this is what it is, this is what it feels like, and Dawn says she has no idea what song I’m talking about, but it doesn’t matter, she’s used to my quirks by now, and I tell her I’ll play it for her later, but in the meantime there’s this and this and this. We are covered in leaves, my tie is caught on a branch, but it’s just so full of life that we don’t mind. We don’t mind any of it.

That night there’s an email from Rhiannon.

A,

Today was awkward, but I think that’s because it feels like a very awkward time. It isn’t about you, and it isn’t about love. It’s about everything crashing together at once. I think you know what I mean.

Let’s try again. But I don’t think it can be at school. I think that’s too much for me. Let’s meet after. Somewhere with no traces of the rest of my life. Only us.

I’m having a hard time imagining how, but I want these pieces to fit.

Love,

R

Day 6024

No alarm wakes me the next day. Instead, I awake to find a mother—someone’s mother, my mother—sitting at the edge of my bed, watching me. She is sorry to wake me, I can see, but that sorrow is a minor part of a much larger sadness. She touches my leg lightly.

“It’s time to wake up,” she says quietly, as if she wants the transition from sleep to waking to be the easiest it can be. “I’ve hung your clothes on the door of the closet. We’ll be leaving in about forty-five minutes. Your father is … very upset. We all are. But he’s taking this particularly hard, so just … give him room, okay?”

While she’s talking to me, I don’t really have the focus to figure out who I am or what’s going on. But after she leaves and I see the dark suit hanging on the closet door, I piece it all together.

My grandfather has died, and I’m about to go to my first funeral.

I tell my mother I forgot to tell friends to cover me for homework, and get on the computer to let Rhiannon know that it’s not likely I’ll be able to see her today. From what I can tell, the service is at least two hours away. At least we won’t be spending the night.

My father has stayed in my parents’ bedroom for most of the morning, but as I’m hitting send on my message to Rhiannon, he emerges. He doesn’t just look upset—he looks newly blind. There is such loss in his eyes, and it permeates every other part of his body. A tie hangs feebly from his neck, barely knotted.

“Marc,” he says to me. “Marc.” This is my name, and coming from his lips right now it sounds like both an incantation and a cry of disbelief. I have no idea how to react.

Marc’s mother sweeps in.

“Oh, honey,” she says, wrapping her arms around her husband for a second, then pulling back to straighten his tie. She turns to me and asks me if I’m ready to go.

I clear the history, turn off the computer, and tell her I just need to put on my shoes.

The car ride to the funeral is largely silent. The news plays on the radio, but after the third loop, I don’t think any of us are listening. Instead, I imagine that Marc’s mother and father are doing the same thing that I’m doing—accessing memories of Marc’s grandfather.

Most of the memories I find are wordless. Silent, strong stretches of sitting together in fishing boats, waiting for a pull on the line. The sight of him sitting at the head of the Thanksgiving table, carving the turkey like it was his birthright to do so. When I was younger, he took me to the zoo—all I can remember is the authority in his voice as he told me about the lions and the bears. I don’t remember the lions or the bears themselves, just the sense of them that he created.