My heart pounds all through the loading screen until Cove is suddenly back, good as new. Cove’s got it good.

I won’t be able to respawn later.

I’m wasting away in here and . . .

There are two bookcases in my room. The blue bookcase on the bottom holds my favorite books that I could never get myself to purge when I did my monthly book donations to the teen health clinic down the block. The white bookcase on top is stacked with books I always planned on reading.

. . . I grab the books as if I’ll have time to read them all: I want to know how this boy deals with a life that’s moved on without him after he’s resurrected by a ritual. Or what it was like for the little girl who couldn’t perform at the school talent show because her parents received the Death-Cast alert while she was dreaming of pianos. Or how this hero known as the People’s Hope receives a message from these Death-Cast-like prophets telling him he’s going to die six days before the final battle where he was the key to victory against the King of All Evil. I throw these books across the room and even kick some of my favorites off their shelves because the line between favorites and books that will never be favorites doesn’t matter anymore.

I rush over to my speakers and almost hurl them against the wall, stopping myself at the last second. Books don’t require electricity, but speakers do, and it can all end here. The speakers and piano taunt me, reminding me of all the times I rushed home from school to have as much private time as I could with my music before Dad returned from his managerial shifts at the crafts store. I would sing, but not too loudly so my neighbors couldn’t overhear me.

I tear down a map from the wall. I have never traveled outside of New York and will never get on a plane to touch down in Egypt to see temples and pyramids or travel to Dad’s hometown in Puerto Rico to visit the rainforest he frequented as a kid. I rip up the map, letting all the countries and cities and towns fall at my feet.

It’s chaos in here. It’s a lot like when the hero in some blockbuster fantasy film is standing in the rubble of his war-ravaged village, bombed because the villains couldn’t find him. Except instead of demolished buildings and disintegrated bricks, there are books open face-first on the floor, their damaged spines poking up, while others are piled on one another. I can’t put everything back together or I’ll find myself alphabetizing all the books and taping the map back together. (I swear this isn’t some excuse to not clean my room.)

I turn off the Xbox Infinity, where Cove has respawned, all limbs together as if he didn’t just explode minutes ago. Cove is standing at the start point, idly dangling his staff.

I have to make a move. I pick up my phone again, reopening the Last Friend app. I hope I step over the people who are dangerous like land mines.

RUFUS

2:59 a.m.

Wish Death-Cast called before I ruined my life tonight.

If Death-Cast hit me up last night, they would’ve knocked me out of that dream I was having where I was losing a marathon to some little kids on tricycles. If Death-Cast hit me up one week ago, I wouldn’t have been up late reading all the notes Aimee wrote me when we were still a thing. If Death-Cast called two weeks ago, they would’ve interrupted that argument I was having with Malcolm and Tagoe about how Marvel heroes are better than DC heroes (and maybe I would’ve asked the herald to weigh in). If Death-Cast called one month ago, they would’ve killed the dead silence that came with me not wanting to talk with anyone after Aimee left. But nah, Death-Cast called tonight while I was pounding on Peck, which led to Aimee dragging him to the duplex to confront me, which led to Peck getting the cops involved and cutting my funeral short, which led to me being one hundred percent alone right now.

None of that would’ve happened if Death-Cast called one day sooner.

I hear police sirens and keep pedaling. I hope something else is happening.

I give it a few more minutes before I take a break, stopping between a McDonald’s and a gas station. It’s mad bright, maybe kneeling over here is stupid, but staying in plain sight might be a good hiding spot. I don’t know, I’m not James Bond, I don’t have some guidebook on how to hide from the bad guys.

Shit, I’m the bad guy.

I can’t keep moving, though. My heart is racing, my legs are on fire, and I gotta catch my breath.

I sit on the curb outside the gas station. It smells like piss and cheap beer. There’s graffiti of two silhouettes on the wall with the air pumps for bike tires. The silhouettes are both shaped like the dude on the men’s bathroom sign. In orange spray paint it says: The Last Friend App.

I keep getting dicked out of proper goodbyes. No final hug with my family, no final hug with the Plutos. It’s not even the goodbyes, man, it’s not getting to thank everyone for all they did for me. The loyalty Malcolm showed me time and time again. The entertainment Tagoe delivered with his B-movie scripts, like Canary Clown and the Carnival of Doom and Snake Taxi—though Substitute Doctor was just so bad, even for a bad movie. Francis’s character impressions had me dying so hard I’d beg him to shut up because my rib cage hurt. The afternoon Jenn Lori taught me to play solitaire so I could keep myself moving, but also have alone time. The really great chat I had with Francis when we were the last two awake, about how instead of complimenting an attractive anyone on their looks my pickup lines should be more personal because “anyone can have pretty eyes, but only the right kind of person can hum the alphabet and make it your new favorite beat.” The way Aimee always kept it real, even just now when she set me free by telling me she wasn’t in love with me.

I could’ve really gone for one last Pluto Solar System group hug. I can’t go back now. Maybe I shouldn’t have run. The charges probably went up for running, but I didn’t have time to think.

I gotta make this up to the Plutos. They spoke nothing but truth during their eulogies. I’ve messed up a bit lately, but I’m good. Malcolm and Tagoe wouldn’t have been my boys if I weren’t, and Aimee wouldn’t have been my girl if I were scum.

They can’t be with me, but that doesn’t mean I have to be alone.

I really don’t wanna be alone.

I pick myself up and walk over to the wall with the graffiti and some oil-stained poster for something called Make-A-Moment. I stare at the Last Friend silhouettes on the wall. Ever since my family died, I would’ve bet anything I was gonna die alone. Maybe I will, but just because I was left behind doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have a Last Friend. I know there’s a good Rufus in me, the Rufus I used to be, and maybe a Last Friend can drag him out of me.

Apps really aren’t my thing, but neither is beating in people’s faces, so I’m already out of my element today. I enter the app store and I download Last Friend. The download is mad fast; probably a bitch on my data, but who cares.

I register as a Decker, set up my profile, upload an old photo off my Instagram, and I’m good to go.

Nothing like receiving seven messages in my first five minutes to make me feel a little less lonely—even though one guy is throwing some bullshit about having the cure to death in his pants and yo, I’ll take death instead.

MATEO

3:14 a.m.

I adjust the settings on my profile so I’ll only be visible to anyone between the ages of sixteen and eighteen; older men and women can no longer hit on me. I take it one step further and now only registered Deckers can connect with me so I don’t have to deal with anyone looking to buy a couch or pot. This diminishes the online numbers significantly. I’m sure there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of teens who received the alert today, but there are only eighty-nine registered Deckers between the ages of sixteen and eighteen online right now. I receive a message from an eighteen-year-old girl named Zoe, but I ignore it when I see a profile for a seventeen-year-old named Rufus; I’ve always liked that name. I click on his profile.