“Nobody thought you would make it,” I say around an apple slice, and you blink at me, sun flashing on your teeth when you smile.

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm.” I drag another slice through some peanut butter. “‘Cause the crash was so bad. It was on the news and everything.”

“I can’t believe that’s how I made it big,” you say mournfully, and our snorting laughter fills the kitchen again, the exact same way it used to before they found your mangled body in a ditch off the highway. Before you were rushed to the hospital. Before your discharge just a month ago.

Your parents still cry about it. I hear your mother on the phone when Mom calls her up every night. Dad spends his nights sitting on the couch and staring at the blank TV screen. He probably can’t believe it yet.

Not me though. I always knew you would come back—you’re my best friend, you’re obligated to.

I lean over, touch your freezing hand, and when you grin, shockingly pale eyes twinkling, I laugh again. 

Suddenly, Mom peers around the corner. Gaunt face, bruised eyes. “Honey,” she croaks, not even glancing in your direction. “Who are you talking to?