I say nothing, giving him an obstinate look.

“Geez, you’re a mule. Keep your secret then.”

“Are you mad?” I ask.

He smiles. “Nah. Whatever you are, you’re honorable, kid. If you won’t talk, you have your reasons. Mysterious and screwed up as they might be.”

I shoot him a relieved smile. “Quit being mean to me or I won’t tell you my news.”

“There’s more? I’m not sure I can take it.”

I tell him about Boston University, and he lets out with a whoop that sets off a spate of coughing. A nurse I don’t know pops his head in to check on us, and as soon as George has breath, he tells the nurse the news. He’s like a proud papa. A warm glow settles over me, one I didn’t feel even when I shared the news with my father.

It hits me.

George won’t be alive to see me graduate college. Maybe not even high school.

The amused nurse wanders off, and George notices how quiet I am.

“You’ve finally figured it out, haven’t you?” he says.

“How long, George?”

For once, he doesn’t put on a brave face. I need an answer, and he understands that.

“The docs say a few weeks if I’m lucky. Things are happening fast now, kid.”

I clamp my jaw tight. George hasn’t asked much of me. Honesty and friendship. I can avoid the tears and the whole maudlin scene for him.

“Well, that’s a pisser.” I inject as much humor in my voice as I can, but my words fall flat.

He attempts to sit up, and I jump up to help him, shoving pillows behind his back. “I’m being serious,” he says when I back away. “I think maybe you shouldn’t keep coming here. I don’t want you to see this.”

I fall back on my heels. He’s trying to send me away. For my own good. That’s the only thing that enables me to rein in my anger.

“Fuck you,” I say. He glares, but I cut him off before he can speak. “Listen up, old man. I’ve put up with a lot of shit this year. I’m not going to take any from you. And I’m not leaving. I thought you knew me better than that.”

“This isn’t about being a good friend—”

“No, you’re right.” I busy myself, tucking his blanket around him. “It’s about family. You’re my family, stupid.”

George’s eyes well up, and I look away. It sounds cheesy, but it’s the freaking truth: I love the old guy.

I clear my throat. “Can we agree not to talk about this again?”

He huffs. “Are you kidding? I’m about to go into diabetic shock from all the sweetness.”

“You’re not diabetic, George.”

“Exactly.”

We change the subject. He asks, “Did you bring your camera?”

My camera, I think, and glow at the thought. I nod, and he says, “Get my tape recorder out of my dresser, will you?”

The Veterans History Project is the last thing I want to think about today, but I do as he asks. “You’re not thinking of doing any interviews today, are you? You need to rest.”

He pushes the recorder into my hand when I try to give it to him. “There’s one interview we haven’t done,” he says.

He stares me down, challenging me to turn away. I don’t get it at first. And then I realize.

We’ve never collected George’s story.

He doesn’t pressure me. Doesn’t remind me that time’s winding away from us. He gives me a chance to refuse. But it’s too late for that. I’d already decided to stay.

So I turn all business, having watched him do this dozens of times. I grab my camera. I set up the recorder on his rolling tray table. When everything is ready, I hit record and begin speaking.

“Today is May fifteenth and I am interviewing George Wilkins at the Fayetteville Veterans Hospital. My name is Sophie Topper Quinn and I’ll be the interviewer. George, could you state for the recording what war and branch of service you served in?”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

School is an afterthought. It’s the blockade standing between visiting the hospital and a future away from Sweethaven. The only thing I’m looking forward to at school is seeing Blake again. We haven’t talked since he followed me home from Grave Woods. It’s more my fault than his, since I took a few days off of school to spend time with George. I’ve tried calling him, but he hasn’t called back.

Walking on Sweethaven High’s campus, I feel like a ghost, existing between two planes of reality. I don’t belong here anymore. It’s at once bittersweet and triumphant. Somehow I miss seeing Blake all day. Then it’s time for Yearbook.

Today’s the last day to turn in photos. Most everything has already been submitted, but Mr. Horowitz begged the printer for a deadline extension in order to get my pictures in. He takes the flash drive from me and plugs it into his computer. Rubbing his hands together with glee, he begins the process of clicking through the hundreds of photos I’ve taken these last weeks. A group of students crowd around his oversized monitor to see them over his shoulder.

The dance. The shots from DC. Static team photos. My favorites are the ones I took on my own without an assignment. The weeks everyone pretended to ignore me had led to some great images. A couple kissing. A shot of another couple’s hands. A senior basketball player showing a freshman how to do a layup during gym.

A sophomore I don’t know that well gives me a look of respect. “These are really good.”