Adam Silvera - They Both Die at the End

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.

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.

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.

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.”