The family reunion continued around me as if I were a piece of lawn furniture that had fallen over. Someone turned up the country music. A kid ran past, chasing a Wiffle ball. The smell of burgers on the grill mixed with cut grass and the sharp, coppery taste of blood in my mouth from where I’d bitten my tongue.

“Get up, Marcus,” Tyler said, and I could hear the satisfaction in his voice, the vindication. “Everyone’s watching. Time to drop the charade.”