Adam Silvera - They Both Die at the End

“Got a dollar? Any change?”

I keep my head low, same as Rufus, and walk past the man. He doesn’t call after us or say anything else.

“I want to give him some money,” I tell Rufus, even though it makes me really nervous to do so alone. I go through my pockets and find eighteen dollars. “Do you have some cash to give him, too?”

“Not to be a dick, but why?”

“Because he needs it,” I say. “He’s digging through trash for food.”

“There’s a chance he’s not even homeless. I’ve been duped before,” he says.

I stop. “I’ve been lied to before too.” I’ve also made the mistake of ignoring others asking for help, and it’s not fair. “I’m not saying we should give him our life savings, just a few bucks.”

“When were you duped?”

“I was in fifth grade, walking to school. This guy asked for a dollar, and when I pulled out my five singles for lunch money, he punched me in the face and took it all.” I’m embarrassed to admit that I was pretty inconsolable at school, crying so hard until Dad left work to visit me in the nurse’s office to see how I was doing. He even walked me to school for two weeks afterward and begged me to be more careful with strangers, especially when money is involved. “I just don’t think I should be the judge of who actually needs my help or not, like they should do a dance or sing me a song to prove they’re worthy. Asking for help when you need it should be enough. And what’s a dollar? We’ll make a dollar again.”

We won’t actually make another dollar, but if Rufus was smart (or paranoid) like I was, he should have more than enough money in his bank account as well. I can’t read Rufus’s face, but he parks his bike, hits down on the kickstand. “Let’s do this then.” He reaches into his pocket and finds twenty dollars in cash. He walks ahead of me and I tail after him, my heart pounding, a little nervous this man might attack us. Rufus stops a foot away from the man and gestures to me, right when the man turns around and looks me square in the eye.

Rufus wants me to speak up.

“Sir, here’s all we have on us.” I take the twenty from Rufus and hold out the cash.

“Don’t play with me.” He looks around, like I’m setting him up. Accepting help shouldn’t make someone suspicious.

“Not at all, sir.” I step closer to him. Rufus stays by my side. “I know it’s not a lot, and I’m sorry.”

“This is . . .” The man comes at me and I swear I’m going to die of a heart attack, it’s like my feet are cemented to a racetrack as a dozen cars speed toward me in colorful blurs, but he doesn’t hit me. The man hugs me, the orange that was in his armpit dropping at our feet. It takes me a minute to find my nerves and muscles, but I hug him too, and everything about him, from his height to his thin body, reminds me of Dad. “Thank you. Thank you,” he says. He releases me, and I don’t know if his eyes are red because he’s possibly without a bed and really tired, or if he’s tearing up, but I don’t pry because he doesn’t have to prove himself to me. I wish I always had that attitude.

The man nods at Rufus and stuffs the cash in his pocket. He doesn’t ask for anything else; he doesn’t hit me. He walks off, his shoulders a little straighter. I wish I’d gotten his name before he left, or at least introduced myself.

“Good call,” Rufus says. “Hopefully karma takes care of you later for that one.”

“This isn’t about karma. I’m not trying to rack up I’m-a-Good-Person points.” You shouldn’t donate to charity, help the elderly cross the street, or rescue puppies in the hopes you’ll be repaid later. I may not be able to cure cancer or end world hunger, but small kindnesses go a long way. Not that I’m saying any of this to Rufus, since all my classmates used to mock me for saying things like that, and no one should feel bad for trying to be good. “I think we made his day by not pretending he’s invisible. Thanks for seeing him with me.”

“I hope we helped the right person,” Rufus says.

Much like Rufus can’t expect me to be instantly brave, I can’t expect him to be instantly generous.

I’m relieved Rufus didn’t mention anything about us dying. It cheapens everything, doesn’t it, if this man thinks we’re only giving him everything we have on us because we may not have any use for it ten minutes from now.

Maybe he’ll go on to trust others because he met us tonight. He definitely helped me out with that.

5:00 a.m.

Death-Cast called Delilah Grey at 2:52 a.m. to tell her she’s going to die today, but she’s sure it’s not true. Delilah isn’t in some denial stage of grief. This has to be a cruel prank from her ex, a Death-Cast employee trying to scare her since she called off their yearlong engagement last night.

Toying with someone like this is incredibly illegal. This degree of fraud can have him thrown in jail for a minimum of twenty years and blacklisted from working pretty much anywhere ever again. Screwing around on the job at Death-Cast is, well, killer.

Delilah can’t believe Victor would abuse his power like this.

She deletes the email with the time-stamp receipt of her call with the herald, Mickey, whom she cursed out before hanging up. She picks up her phone, tempted to call Victor. She shakes her head and places her phone back by the pillow on the side of the bed that was Victor’s whenever he stayed over. Delilah refuses to give Victor the satisfaction of thinking she’s paranoid, which she isn’t. If he’s waiting on her to log on to death-cast.com to see if her name is actually registered on the site as a Decker or to call him and threaten him with a lawsuit until he admits Mickey is a friend at work he recruited to scare her, he’s going to be waiting a very long time—time she has plenty of.

Delilah is moving on with her day because just as she didn’t second-guess her decision to call off the engagement, she will not second-guess that bullshit call.

She goes to the bathroom and brushes her teeth while admiring her hair in the mirror. Her hair is vibrant— too vibrant, according to her boss. In the past few weeks, Delilah needed a change, ignoring the voice in her head urging her to end things with Victor. Dyeing her hair was simpler. Fewer tears involved. When asked by the hairdresser what she wanted, Delilah asked for the aurora borealis treatment. The combination of pink, purple, green, and blue needs some touch-ups, but that can wait until next week after she catches up on assignments.

She returns to bed and opens her laptop. Breaking up with Victor last night before his shift pulled her away from her own work, a season premiere recap she’s writing for Infinite Weekly , where she’s been working as an editorial assistant since graduating from college this spring. She’s not a Hipster House fan, but those hipsters are more clickbait-y than the Jersey Shore crew, and someone has to write the pieces because the editors are busy covering the respected franchises. Delilah is well aware how lucky she is to be given the grunt work, and to have a job at all considering she’s the new hire who missed several deadlines because she was preoccupied planning a wedding with someone she’s only known for fourteen months.

Delilah turns on her TV to re-watch the painfully absurd premiere—a challenge in a crowded Brooklyn coffee shop where the hipsters have to cowrite short stories on a typewriter—and before she can switch to her DVR, a Fox 5 anchor shares something truly newsworthy, given her interests.

“. . . and we’ve reached out to his agents for word. The twenty-five-year-old actor may have played the young antagonist of the blockbuster Scorpius Hawthorne films about the demonic boy wizard, but fans all over the world have been sharing nothing but love online for Howie Maldonado. Follow us on Twitter and Facebook for immediate updates on this developing story. . . .”