Adam Silvera - They Both Die at the End

If someone else were playing Traveler, what would they predict for me and Rufus?

Rufus taps my shoulder, pointing at the exit as the doors open. “Hey, isn’t this the stop where we spontaneously got our gym memberships?”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, it is! You wanted to be brolic after some dick bumped into you at the Bleachers concert,” Rufus says, right when the doors close.

I haven’t been to a Bleachers concert but I get the game now. “Wrong night, Rufus. The dude bumped into me at the Fun concert. Hey, this is the stop where we got tattoos.”

“Yeah. The tattoo artist, Barclay—”

“Baker,” I correct. “Remember? Baker the tattoo artist who quit medical school?”

“Riiiight. We caught Baker in a good mood and he gave us a Buy One, Get One Free deal. I got the bike tire on my forearm”—he taps his arm—“and you got . . . ?”

“A male seahorse.”

Rufus looks so confused, like he might call time-out to see if we’re still playing the same game. “Uh . . . remind me why you got that one again.”

“My dad is really into male seahorses. He carried me through life solo, remember? I can’t believe you forgot the meaning of the seahorse tattoo on my shoulder. No, wrist. Yeah, it’s on my wrist. That’s cooler.”

“I can’t believe you forgot where your tattoo is.”

When we get to the next stop, Rufus throws us into the future: “Hey, this is where I normally get off for work. When I’m in the office, at least, and not in whatever resort around the world they send me to for review. It’s wild I get to work in a building you designed and built.”

“So wild, Rufus.”

I look down at where my seahorse tattoo should be.

In the future, Rufus is a travel blogger and I’m an architect. We have tattoos we got together. We’ve gone to so many concerts he can’t keep them straight in his head. I almost wish we weren’t so creative in this moment, because these fake memories of friendship feel incredible. Imagine that—reliving something you never lived.

“We have to leave our mark,” I say, getting up from my seat.

“We going outside to piss on fire hydrants?”

I put the blind-date book on the seat. “I don’t know who will find this. But isn’t it cool knowing someone will if we leave it here?”

“It’s true. This is prime seating,” Rufus says, getting up from the bench.

The train stops and the doors open. There has to be more to life than imagining a future for yourself. I can’t just wish for the future; I have to take risks to create it.

“There’s something I really want to do,” I say.

“We out,” Rufus says, smiling.

We get off the train before the doors close, almost bumping into two girls, and we take off out of the subway.

2:57 p.m.

Death-Cast called Zoe Landon at 12:34 a.m. to tell her she’s going to die today. Zoe was lonely, having only moved to New York eight days ago to begin classes at NYU today . She’s barely unpacked her boxes, let alone made friends yet. But thankfully the Last Friend app was one click away. Her first message went to this boy Mateo, but he never responded. Maybe he died. Maybe he ignored her message. Maybe he found a Last Friend.

Like Zoe ultimately did.

Zoe and Gabriella get on the train right before the doors close, dodging two boys to do so. They rush to the bench in the corner, halting when they see a paper-wrapped object sitting there. Rectangular. Every time Zoe enters the subway, there are all these signs encouraging her to say something if she sees something—she’s seeing something .

“This is bad,” Zoe says. “You should get off at the next stop.”

Gabriella, fearless because she didn’t receive the alert today, picks up the object.

Zoe flinches.

“It’s a book,” Gabriella says. “Ooh! It’s a surprise book!” She sits and eyes the illustration of a fleeing criminal. “I love this art.”

Zoe sits next to her. She thinks the drawing is cute but respects Gabriella’s opinion.

“It’s my turn to tell you a secret,” Gabriella says. “If you want.”

Zoe shared all her secrets today with Gabriella. All the secrets she made her childhood best friends pinkie swear to never tell another soul. All the heartbreaking ones she always kept to herself because speaking up was too hard. Together, the two have laughed and cried, as if they’ve been best friends their entire lives. “Your secret dies with me,” Zoe says. She doesn’t laugh and neither does Gabriella, but she squeezes her hand to let her know she’s going to be okay. A promise based on nothing but a gut instinct. Screw evidence of the afterlife.

“It’s not a huge secret, but I’m Batman . . . of the Manhattan graffiti world,” Gabriella says.

“Aw, you had me really excited, Batman . . . of the Manhattan graffiti world,” Zoe says.

“I specialize in graffiti pushing Last Friends. In some places I’ll draw with marker, like on menus and train posters, but my true love is graffiti. I’ve done tags for the Last Friends I’ve met. Anywhere I can. In the past week, I’ve covered walls with the cute silhouettes from the app by McDonald’s, two hospitals, and a soup spot. I hope everyone uses it.” Gabriella taps her fingers against the book. At first look, Zoe thought the colors around her nails was a polish job gone terribly wrong, but she knows the truth now. “Anyway. I love art and I will tag a mailbox or something with your name.”

“Maybe somewhere on the Broadway strip? I won’t ever have my name in lights, but it’ll be there,” Zoe says. She pictures her request now. Her heart is full and empty at the thought.

Passengers look up from their newspapers and phone games and stare at Zoe. Indifference on one’s face, pity on another’s. Pure sadness from a black woman with this gorgeous afro. “Sorry to lose you,” the woman says.

“Thank you,” Zoe says.

The woman returns to her phone.

Zoe scoots closer to Gabriella. “I feel like I made this weird,” she says, her voice quieter than before.

“Speak up while you can,” Gabriella says.

“Let’s see what that book is,” Zoe says. She’s curious. “Open it.”

Gabriella hands Zoe the book. “ You open it. It’s your . . .”

“It’s my End Day, not my birthday,” Zoe says. “I don’t need a gift and I’m not exactly going to read the book in the next . . .” Zoe checks her watch and feels dizzy. She has at most nine hours left—and she’s a very slow reader. “Consider this gift left behind by someone else my gift to you . Thanks for being my Last Friend.”

The woman across looks up. Her eyes widen. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m just really happy to hear you’re Last Friends. I’m happy you found someone on your End Day.” She gestures to Gabriella. “And that you’re helping make days full. It’s beautiful.”

Gabriella wraps an arm around Zoe’s shoulders and pulls her close. The two thank the woman.

Of course Zoe meets the most welcoming New Yorkers on her End Day.

“Let’s open it together,” Gabriella says, returning their attention to the book.

“Deal,” Zoe says.

Zoe hopes Gabriella continues befriending Deckers when she can.

Life isn’t meant to be lived alone. Neither are End Days.

3:18 p.m.

Seeing Lidia will be a huge risk, but it’s one I want to take.

The bus pulls up and we allow everyone else to get on first before boarding. I ask the bus driver if he received the alert today and he shakes his head. This ride should be safe. We can still die on the bus, yeah, but the odds of the bus being completely totaled and killing us while leaving everyone else severely injured seem pretty low.