They Both Die at the End

by Adam Silvera

  “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.”

  “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.

  Both Malcolm and Tagoe are currently being taken to the police station.

  “This is pointless,” Tagoe says in the back of the cop car. He’s no longer sucking his teeth or shouting about how he did nothing, the way he did when the handcuffs first went on, even though Malcolm and Aimee urged him to shut up. “They’re not gonna find Rufus. He’ll dust them on his—”

  “Shut up.” This time Malcolm isn’t worried about extra charges coming Tagoe’s way. Malcolm already knows Rufus managed to get away on his bike. The bike wasn’t there when they were being escorted out of the house. And he knows Rufus can dust the police on his bike, but he doesn’t want them keeping an eye out for boys on bikes and find him. If they want him, they’re gonna have to work for it.

  Malcolm can’t give his friend an extra day, but he can find him extra time to live.

  This is assuming Rufus is still alive.

  Malcolm is game to take this hit for Rufus, and he knows he’s not innocent himself, that’s common sense. The Plutos snuck out earlier tonight with the intention of kicking Peck’s ass, which Rufus did a fine job of all by himself. Malcolm has never even been in a fight before, even though many paint him to be a violent young man because he’s six feet tall, black, and close to two hundred pounds. Just because he’s built like a wrestler doesn’t mean he’s a criminal. And now Malcolm and Tagoe will be tagged as juvenile delinquents.

  But they’ll have their lives.

  Malcolm stares out the window, wishing he could glimpse Rufus on his bike turning a corner, and finally he cries, these loud, stuttering sobs, not because he’ll now have a criminal record, not because he’s scared to go to the police station, not even because Rufus is dying, but because the biggest crime of all tonight was not being able to hug his best friend goodbye.

  MATEO

  3:42 a.m.

  There’s a knock at the front door and I stop pacing.

  Different nerves hit me all at once: What if it’s not Rufus, even though no one else should be knocking at my door this late at night? What if it is Rufus and he’s got a gang of thieves with him or something? What if it’s Dad, who didn’t tell
me he woke up so that he could surprise me—the sort of End Day miracle they make Lifetime movies about?

  I approach the door slowly, nudge up the peephole’s cover, and squint at Rufus, who’s looking right at me, even though I know he can’t actually make me out.

  “It’s Rufus,” he says from the other side.

  I hope it’s only him out there as I slide the chain free from its track. I pull the door open, finding a very three-dimensional Rufus in front of me, not someone I’m looking at through video chat or a peephole. He’s in a dark gray fleece and is wearing blue basketball shorts over these Adidas gym tights. He nods at me. There’s no smile or anything, but it’s friendly all the same. I lean forward, my heart pounding, and peek out into the hallway to see if he has some friends hiding against the walls, ready to jump me for the little I have. But the hallway is empty and now Rufus is smiling.

  “I’m on your turf, dude,” Rufus says. “If anyone should be suspicious, it’s me. This better not be some fake sheltered-kid act, yo.”

  “It’s no act,” I promise. “I’m sorry, I’m just . . . on edge.”

  “We’re in the same boat.” He holds out his hand and I shake it. His palm is sweaty. “You ready to bounce? This is a trick question, obviously.”

  “I’m ready-ish,” I answer. He’s come straight to my door for my company today, to lead me outside my sanctuary so we can live until we don’t. “Let me grab a couple of things.”

  I don’t invite him in, nor does he invite himself inside. He holds the door open from the outside while I grab the notes for my neighbors and my keys. I turn off the lights and walk past Rufus, and he closes the door behind me. I lock up. Rufus heads toward the elevator while I go the opposite way.

  “Where you going?”

  “I don’t want my neighbors to be surprised or worried when I’m not answering.” I drop off one note in front of 4F. “Elliot cooked extra food for me because I was only eating waffles.” I come back Rufus’s way and leave the second note in front of 4A. “And Sean was going to take a look at our busted stove, but he doesn’t have to worry about that now.”

  “That’s chill of you,” he says. “I didn’t think to do that.”

  I approach the elevator and peek over my shoulder at Rufus, this stranger who’s following me. I don’t feel uneasy, but I am guarded. He talks like we’ve been friends for a while, but I’m still suspicious. Which is fair, since the only things I know about him are that his name is Rufus, he rides a bike, he survived a tragedy, and he wants to be the Mario to my Luigi. And that he’s also dying today.

  “Whoa, we’re not taking the elevator,” Rufus says. “Two Deckers riding an elevator on their End Day is either a death wish or the start to a bad joke.”

  “Good point,” I say. The elevator is risky. Best-case scenario? We get stuck. Worst-case scenario? Obvious. Thankfully, I have Rufus here to be calculating for me; I guess Last Friends double as life coaches that way. “Let’s take the stairs,” I say, as if there’s some other option to get outside, like a rope hanging from the hallway window or one of those aircraft emergency slides. I go down the four flights like a child being trusted with stairs for the first time, its parents a couple steps ahead—except no one is here to catch me should I fall, or should Rufus trip and tumble into me.

  We get downstairs safely. My hand hovers over the lobby door. I can’t do it. I’m ready to retreat back upstairs until Rufus moves past me and pushes open the door, and the wet late-summer air brings me some relief. I’m even hit with hope that I, and only I—sorry, Rufus—can beat death. It’s a nice second away from reality.

  “Go ahead,” Rufus says. He’s pressuring me, but that’s the whole point of our dynamic. I don’t want to disappoint either of us, especially myself.

  I exit the lobby but stop once the door is behind me. I was last outside yesterday afternoon, when I was coming home from visiting Dad, an uneventful Labor Day. But being out here now is different. I check out the buildings I’ve grown up with but never paid any special attention to. There are lights on in my neighbors’ apartments. I can even hear one couple moaning; the roaring audience laughter from a comedy special; someone else laughing from another window, possibly at the very loud comedy show or possibly because they’re being tickled by a lover or laughing at a joke someone cared enough to text them at this late hour.

  Rufus claps, snapping me out of my trance. “You get ten points.” He goes to a railing and unlocks his steel-gray bike.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, inching farther away from the door. “We should have a battle plan.”

  “Battle plans usually involve bullets and bombs,” Rufus says. “Let’s roll with game plan.” He wheels his bike toward the street corner. “Bucket lists are pointless. You’re not gonna get everything done. You gotta go with the flow.”

  “You sound like a pro at dying.”

  That was stupid. I know it before Rufus shakes his head.

  “Yeah, well,” Rufus says.

  “I’m sorry. I just . . .” A panic attack is coming on; my chest is tightening, my face is burning up, my skin and scalp are itchy. “I can’t wrap my head around the fact that I’m living a day where I might need a bucket list.” I scratch my head and take a deep breath. “This isn’t going to work. It’s going to backfire on us. Hanging out together is a bad idea because it’ll only double our chances of dying sooner. Like a Decker hot zone. What if we’re walking down the block and I trip and bang my head against a fire hydrant and—” I shut up, cringing from the phantom pain you get when you think about falling face-first onto spiked fences or having your teeth punched out of your mouth.

  “You can do your own thing, but we’re done for whether we hang or not,” Rufus says. “No point fearing it.”

  “Not that easy. We’re not dying from natural causes. How can we try to live knowing some truck might run us down when we’re crossing the street?”

  “We’ll look both ways, like we’ve been trained to do since we were kids.”

  “And if someone pulls out a gun?”

  “We’ll stay out of bad neighborhoods.”

  “And if a train kills us?”

  “If we’re on train tracks on our End Day, we’re asking for it.”

  “What if—”

  “Don’t do this to yourself!” Rufus closes his eyes, rubbing them with his fist. I’m driving him crazy. “We can play this game all day, or we can stay out here and maybe, like, live. Don’t do your last day wrong.”

  Rufus is right. I know he’s right. No more arguing. “It’s going to take me some time to get where you are with this. I don’t become fearless just because I know my options are do something and die versus do nothing and still die.” He doesn’t remind me that we don’t have a whole lot of time. “I have to say goodbye to my dad and my best friend.” I walk toward the 110th Street subway station.

  “We can do that,” Rufus says. “I have nothing I’m gunning to do. I had my funeral and that didn’t exactly go as planned. Not really expecting a do-over, though.”

  I’m not surprised someone so boldly living his End Day had a funeral. I’m sure he had more than two people to say goodbye to.

  “What happened?” I say.

  “Nonsense.” Rufus doesn’t elaborate.

  I’m looking both ways, getting ready to cross the street, when I spot a dead bird in the road, its small shadow cast from a bodega’s lit awning. The bird has been flattened; its severed head is a couple inches away. I think it was run down by a car and then split by a bike—hopefully not Rufus’s. This bird definitely didn’t receive an alert telling it that it would die tonight, or maybe yesterday, or the day before, though I like to imagine the driver that killed it at least saw the bird and honked their horn. But maybe that warning wouldn’t have mattered.

  Rufus sees the bird too. “That sucks.”

  “We need to get it out of the street.” I look around for something to scoop it up with; I know I shouldn’t touch it with my bare hands.
>
  “Say what?”

  “I don’t have this dead-is-dead-so-just-walk-away attitude,” I say.

  “I definitely don’t have this ‘dead-is-dead-so-just-walk-away attitude’ either,” Rufus says, an edge to his voice.

  I need to check myself. “I’m sorry. Again.” I quit my hunt. “Here’s the thing. When I was in third grade, I was playing outside in the rain when a baby bird fell out of its nest. I caught every second of it: the moment the bird leapt off the edge of the nest, spread its wings, and fell. The way its eyes darted around for help. Its leg broke on impact, and it couldn’t drag itself to shelter, so the rain was pummeling it.”

  “That bird had some bad instincts, jumping out the tree like that,” Rufus says.

  The bird dared to leave home, at least. “I was scared it was going to freeze to death or drown in a puddle, so I ran out and sat down on the ground with the bird, sort of shielding it with my legs, like a tower.” The cold wind got the best of us, and I had to take off from school the following Monday and Tuesday because I’d gotten really sick.

  “What happened then?”

  “I have no idea,” I admit. “I remember I got a cold and missed school, but I must’ve blocked out what happened to the bird. I think about it every now and again because I know I didn’t find a ladder and return it to its nest. Sucks to think I left it there to die in the rain.” I’ve often thought that helping that bird was my first act of kindness, something I did because I wanted to help another, and not because my dad or some teacher expected me to do it. “I can do better for this bird, though.”

  Rufus looks at me, takes a deep breath, then turns his back and wheels his bike away from me. My chest tightens again, and it’s very possible I have some health problems I’m going to discover and die from today, but I’m hit with relief when Rufus parks his bike along the sidewalk, throwing down the kickstand with his foot. “Let me find you something for the bird,” he says. “Don’t touch it.”