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Mateo T. (3:20 a.m.): Death-Cast called me a little after midnight.
Rufus E. (3:20 a.m.): What have you been doing all night?
Mateo T. (3:20 a.m.): Cleaning and playing video games.
Rufus E. (3:20 a.m.): Which game?
Rufus E. (3:21 a.m.): N/m the game doesn’t matter. Don’t you have stuff you wanna do? What are you waiting for?
Mateo T. (3:21 a.m.): I was talking to potential Last Friends and they were . . . not great, is the kindest way to put it.
Rufus E. (3:21 a.m.): Why do you need a Last Friend before starting your day?
Mateo T. (3:22 a.m.): Why do YOU need a Last Friend when you have friends?
Rufus E. (3:22 a.m.): I asked you first.
Mateo T. (3:22 a.m.): Fair. I think it’s insane to leave the apartment knowing something or SOMEONE is going to kill me. Also because there are “Last Friends” out there claiming they have the cure to death in their pants.
Rufus E. (3:23 a.m.): I spoke to that dick too! Not his dick, exactly. But I reported and blocked him afterward. I promise I’m better than that guy. I guess that’s not saying much. Do you wanna video-chat? I’ll send you the invite.
An icon of a silhouette speaking into a phone flashes. I almost reject the call, too confused about the suddenness of this moment, but I answer before the call goes away, before Rufus goes away. The screen goes black for a second, and then a total stranger with the face Rufus has in his profile appears. He’s sweating and looking down, but his eyes quickly find me and I feel exposed, maybe even a little threatened, like he’s some scary childhood legend that can reach through the screen and drag me into a dark underworld. In my overactive imagination’s defense, Rufus has already tried bullying me out of my own world and into the world beyond, so—
“Yo,” Rufus says. “You see me?”
“Yeah, hey. I’m Mateo.”
“Hey, Mateo. My bad for springing the video chat on you,” Rufus says. “Kind of hard to trust someone you can’t see, you get me?”
“No worries,” I say. There’s a glare, which is a little blinding wherever he is, but I can still make out his light brown face. I wonder why he’s so sweaty.
“You wanted to know why I’d prefer a Last Friend over my real-life friends, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Unless that’s too personal.”
“Nah, don’t worry about that. I don’t think ‘too personal’ should exist between Last Friends. Long story short: I was with my parents and sister when our car crashed into the Hudson River and I had to watch them die. Living with that guilt isn’t something I want for my friends. I have to throw that out there and make sure that you’re okay with this.”
“With you leaving your friends behind?”
“No. The chance you might have to watch me die.”
I’m being faced with the heaviest of chances today: I may have to watch him die, unless it’s the other way around, and both possibilities make me want to throw up. It’s not that I feel a deep connection or anything to him already, but the idea of watching anyone die makes me sick and sad and angry—and that’s why he’s asking. But not doing anything is hardly comforting, either. “Okay, yeah. I can do it.”
“Can you? There’s the whole you-not-leaving-your-house problem. Last Friend or not, I’m not spending the rest of my life holed up in someone’s apartment—and I don’t want you to either, but you gotta meet me halfway, Mateo,” Rufus says. The way he says my name is a little more comforting than the way I imagined that creep Philly would say it; it’s more like a conductor giving a pep talk before a sold-out performance. “Believe me, I know it can get ugly out here. There was a point where I didn’t think any of this was worthwhile.”
“Well, what changed?” I don’t mean it to sound like a challenge, but it kind of is. I’m not leaving the safety of my apartment that easily. “You lost your family and then what?”
“I wasn’t about this life,” Rufus says, looking away. “And I would’ve been game with game over. But that’s not what my parents and sis wanted for me. It’s mad twisted, but surviving showed me it’s better to be alive wishing I was dead than dying wishing I could live forever. If I can lose it all and change my attitude, you need to do the same before it’s too late, dude. You gotta go for it.”
Go for it. That’s what I said in my profile. He’s paid more attention than the others and cared about me the way a friend should.
“Okay,” I say. “How do we do this? Is there a handshake or something?” I’m really hoping my trust isn’t betrayed the way it’s been in the past.
“We can get a handshake going when we meet, but until then I promise to be the Mario to your Luigi, except I won’t hog the spotlight. Where we should we meet? I’m by the drugstore south of—”
“I have one condition,” I say. His eyes squint; he’s probably nervous about the curveball I’m throwing his way. “You said I have to meet you halfway, but you need to pick me up from home. It’s not a trap, I swear.”
“Sounds like a trap,” Rufus says. “I’m gonna find a different Last Friend.”
