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“It’s really not! I swear.” I almost drop the phone. I’ve screwed everything up. “Seriously, I—”
“I’m kidding, dude,” he says. “I’ll send you my phone number and you can text me your address. Then we can come up with a plan.”
I’m just as relieved as I was when Andrea from Death-Cast called me Timothy during the call, when I thought I’d actually lucked into more life. Except this time it’s okay to fully relax—I think. “Will do,” I say.
He doesn’t say bye or anything, he just looks at me for a little longer, likely sizing me up, or maybe questioning whether or not I’m actually luring him into a trap.
“See you in a bit, Mateo. Try not to die before I get there.”
“Try not to die getting here,” I say. “Be safe, Rufus.”
Rufus nods and ends the video chat. He sends me his phone number and I’m tempted to call it to make sure he’s the one who picks up, and not some creep who’s paying him to collect addresses of young vulnerable guys. But if I keep second-guessing Rufus, this Last Friend business won’t work.
I am a little concerned about spending my End Day with someone who’s accepted dying, someone who’s made mistakes. I don’t know him, obviously, and he might turn out to be insanely destructive—he is outside in the middle of the night on a day he’s slated for death, after all. But no matter what choices we make—solo or together—our finish line remains the same. It doesn’t matter how many times we look both ways. It doesn’t matter if we don’t go skydiving to play it safe, even though it means we’ll never get to fly like my favorite superheroes do. It doesn’t matter if we keep our heads low when passing a gang in a bad neighborhood.
No matter how we choose to live, we both die at the end.
PART TWO
The Last Friend
A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.
—John A. Shedd
ANDREA DONAHUE
3:30 a.m.
Death-Cast did not call Andrea Donahue because she isn’t dying today. Andrea herself, one of Death-Cast’s top reps since their inception seven years ago, has made her fair share of End Day calls. Tonight, between midnight and three, Andrea called sixty-seven Deckers; not her best number, but it’s proven difficult to beat her record of ninety-two calls in one shift ever since she was put under inspection for rushing through calls.
Allegedly.
On her way out of the building, limping, with her cane, Andrea hopes HR won’t review her call log tonight, even though she knows hope is a dangerous thing in this profession. Andrea mixed up several names, too eager to get from one Decker to the next. It’d be terrible timing to lose her job, with all the physical therapy she needs after her accident on top of her daughter’s mounting tuition. Not to mention it’s the only job she’s ever been great at because of one major life hack she discovered that has sent others out the door and on to less distressing jobs.
Rule number one of one: Deckers are no longer people.
That’s it. Abide by this one and only rule and you won’t find yourself wasting hours with the company’s counselors. Andrea knows there’s nothing she can do for these Deckers. She can’t fluff their pillows or serve them last meals or keep them alive. She won’t waste her breath praying for them. She won’t get invested in their life stories and cry for them. She simply tells them they’re dying and moves on. The sooner she gets off the phone, the sooner she reaches the next Decker.
Andrea reminds herself every night how lucky these Deckers are to have her at their service. She doesn’t just tell people they’re dying. She gives them a chance to really live.
But she can’t live for them. That’s on them.
She’s already done her part, and she does it well.
RUFUS
3:31 a.m.
I’m biking toward that Mateo kid’s house. He better not be a serial killer or so help me . . . Nah, he’s chill. It’s obvious he spends way too much time in his head and is probably too antisocial for his own damn good. I mean, check this: I’m legit gonna pick him up from his house, like he’s some prince stuck in a high tower in need of rescuing. I think once the awkwardness is out of the way he’ll make for a solid partner-in-crime. If not, we can always part ways. It’ll suck ’cause that’s a waste of time we don’t have, but it is what it is. If nothing else, having a Last Friend should make my friends feel a little better about me running wild around the city. It makes me feel a little better, at least.
MALCOLM ANTHONY
3:34 a.m.
Death-Cast did not call Malcolm Anthony tonight because he isn’t dying today, but his future has been threatened. Malcom and his best friend Tagoe didn’t offer the police any clues as to where they believe Rufus may be headed. Malcolm told the police Rufus is a Decker and absolutely not worth chasing, but the officers couldn’t let Rufus go unpursued, not after his act of aggravated assault. So Malcolm came up with a genius, life-ruining idea: get himself arrested.
Malcolm argued with the police officer and resisted arrest, but the great flaw in his plan was being unable to communicate it to Tagoe, who jumped into the argument too with more aggression than Malcolm himself was using.
