Then her head jerks up, eyes wild.

“You killed my son!” she screams at the man standing pale and frozen beside his car. She runs at him, shoving him hard in the chest. “You killed my son!”

Somewhere, a neighbor shouts, “I’ve called 911!” but I don’t even remember seeing him arrive.

I just sit there, knees scraped on the pavement, still holding Jameson’s hand. My eyes won’t leave his face.

Jameson isn’t just my twin. He is my best friend. Most nights we sneak into each other’s beds, whispering secrets and silly made-up stories until we fall asleep tangled up together.