10:39 a.m.
I gotta take a photo of Mateo sleeping.
That sounds creepy, no shit. But I gotta immortalize this dreamy look on his face. That doesn’t sound any less creepy. Shit. It’s the moment, too, I want. How often do you find yourself on a train that’s having a blackout with an eighteen-year-old kid and his Lego house as he’s on his way to the cemetery to visit his mother’s headstone? Exactly. That’s Instagram-worthy.
I stand to get a wider shot. I aim in the darkness and take his picture, the flash blinding me. A moment later, no joke, the train’s lights and fans come back and we continue moving.
“I’m a wizard,” I mutter. No shit, I discover I have superpowers on my End Day. I wish someone got that on camera. I could’ve gone viral.
The picture is dope. I’ll upload it when I have service.
It’s good I got the photo of Mateo sleeping when I did—yeah, yeah, creepy, we established that—because his face is shifting, his left eye twitching. He looks uneasy and he’s breathing harder. Shaking. Holy shit, maybe he’s epileptic. I don’t know, he never told me anything like that. I should’ve asked. I’m about to call out for someone on the train who might know what to do if he’s having a seizure when Mateo mutters “No,” and repeats it over and over.
Mateo is having a nightmare.
I sit beside him and grab his arm to save him.
MATEO
10:42 a.m.
Rufus shakes me awake.
I’m no longer on the mountain; I’m back on the train. The lights are on and we’re moving.
I take a deep breath as I turn to the window, as if I’m actually expecting to find boulders and headless birds flying my way.
“Bad dream, dude?”
“I dreamt I was skiing.”
“That’s my bad. What happened in the dream?”
“It started with me going down one of those kiddy slopes.”
“The bunny slope?”
I nod. “Then it got really steep and the hills got icier and I dropped my ski poles. I turned around to look for them and I saw a boulder coming for me. All of a sudden it got louder and louder and I wanted to throw myself off to the side into this mound of snow, but I panicked. I was supposed to turn down another hill where I saw my Lego sanctuary, except it was as big as a cabin, but my skis disappeared and I flew straight off the mountain while headless birds circled overhead and I kept falling and falling.”
Rufus grins.
“It’s not funny,” I say.
He shifts closer to me, his knee knocking into mine. “You’re okay. I promise you don’t have to worry about boulders chasing you or flying off a snowy mountain today.”
“And everything else?”
Rufus shrugs. “You’re probably good on the headless birds, too.”
It sucks that that was the last time I’ll ever dream.
It wasn’t even a good one.
DELILAH GREY
11:08 a.m.
Infinite Weekly has secured Howie Maldonado’s final interview.
Delilah herself hasn’t.
“I know everything about Howie Maldonado,” Delilah says, but her boss, Senior Editor Sandy Guerrero, isn’t having it.
“You’re too new for a profile this important,” Sandy says, walking toward a black car sent over by Howie’s people.
“I know I work in the absolutely worst cubicle with the most ancient computer, but that doesn’t mean I’m not qualified to at least assist you with this interview,” Delilah says. She comes off as ungrateful and arrogant, but she won’t take it back. She’ll move far in this industry by knowing her worth—and by landing a byline in this piece. It may have been Sandy’s industry status that persuaded the publicist to choose Infinite Weekly over People magazine, but Delilah grew up with not only the Scorpius Hawthorne books, but also the films, all eight of them, which nurtured her love for this medium. From fangirl to paid fangirl.
“Howie Maldonado won’t be the last person to die, I’m pleased to report,” Sandy says, opening the car door and removing her sunglasses. “You have your whole life ahead of you to eulogize celebrities.”
Delilah still can’t believe how low Victor sank last night with that prank Death-Cast alert.
Sandy gives Delilah’s colorful hair a once-over, and Delilah wishes she’d respected her editor’s hints to dye it brown again, if only to gain her favor right now.
“Do you know how many MTV Movie Awards Howie has won?” Delilah asks. “Or which sport he played competitively as a child? How many siblings he has? How many languages he speaks?”
Sandy doesn’t answer a single question.
Delilah answers them all: “Two awards for Best Villain. Competitive fencing. Only child. He speaks English and French. . . . Sandy, please. I promise I won’t let my passion get in your way. I will never have another chance to meet Howie.”
His death can be life-changing for her career.
Sandy shakes her head and releases a deep breath. “Fine. He’s agreed to interview, but there are no guarantees. Obviously. We’ve reserved a private dining area in Midtown and we’re still awaiting confirmation from his publicist that Howie has agreed to this setup. The earliest Howie may see us is at two.”
Delilah is ready to sit in the car with her when Sandy shakes her finger.
“There’s still time before we meet,” Sandy says. “Please find me a copy of Howie’s book, the one he wrote.” The sarcasm in Sandy’s voice is so sharp she doesn’t need air quotes. “I’ll be a hero if I get a copy signed for my son.” Sandy closes the door and lowers her window. “I’d stop wasting time if I were you.”
The car takes off and Delilah pulls out her phone, walking toward the street corner while looking up phone numbers for nearby bookstores. She trips off the curb and lands flat in the street, a car honking as it approaches her. The car brakes, a couple feet away from her face. Her heart runs wild and her eyes tear up.
But she lived because Delilah isn’t dying today. People fall all the time.
Delilah is no exception, she reminds herself, even if she’s not a Decker.
MATEO
11:32 a.m.
The clouds are gathering as we walk into Evergreens Cemetery. I haven’t been here since I was twelve, the weekend of Mother’s Day, and I cannot for the life of me tell you which of the entrances will help us reach her headstone fastest, so we’re sure to be wandering for a bit. A breeze carries the smell of trimmed grass.
“Weird question: Do you believe in the afterlife?” I ask.
“That’s not weird, we’re dying,” Rufus says.
“Right.”
“Weird answer: I believe in two afterlives.”
“Two?”
“Two.”
“What are they?” I ask.