I’m not surprised someone so boldly living his End Day had a funeral. I’m sure he had more than two people to say goodbye to.

“What happened?” I say.

“Nonsense.” Rufus doesn’t elaborate.

I’m looking both ways, getting ready to cross the street, when I spot a dead bird in the road, its small shadow cast from a bodega’s lit awning. The bird has been flattened; its severed head is a couple inches away. I think it was run down by a car and then split by a bike—hopefully not Rufus’s. This bird definitely didn’t receive an alert telling it that it would die tonight, or maybe yesterday, or the day before, though I like to imagine the driver that killed it at least saw the bird and honked their horn. But maybe that warning wouldn’t have mattered.

Rufus sees the bird too. “That sucks.”

“We need to get it out of the street.” I look around for something to scoop it up with; I know I shouldn’t touch it with my bare hands.

“Say what?”

“I don’t have this dead-is-dead-so-just-walk-away attitude,” I say.

“I definitely don’t have this ‘dead-is-dead-so-just-walk-away attitude’ either,” Rufus says, an edge to his voice.

I need to check myself. “I’m sorry. Again.” I quit my hunt. “Here’s the thing. When I was in third grade, I was playing outside in the rain when a baby bird fell out of its nest. I caught every second of it: the moment the bird leapt off the edge of the nest, spread its wings, and fell. The way its eyes darted around for help. Its leg broke on impact, and it couldn’t drag itself to shelter, so the rain was pummeling it.”

“That bird had some bad instincts, jumping out the tree like that,” Rufus says.

The bird dared to leave home, at least. “I was scared it was going to freeze to death or drown in a puddle, so I ran out and sat down on the ground with the bird, sort of shielding it with my legs, like a tower.” The cold wind got the best of us, and I had to take off from school the following Monday and Tuesday because I’d gotten really sick.

“What happened then?”

“I have no idea,” I admit. “I remember I got a cold and missed school, but I must’ve blocked out what happened to the bird. I think about it every now and again because I know I didn’t find a ladder and return it to its nest. Sucks to think I left it there to die in the rain.” I’ve often thought that helping that bird was my first act of kindness, something I did because I wanted to help another, and not because my dad or some teacher expected me to do it. “I can do better for this bird, though.”

Rufus looks at me, takes a deep breath, then turns his back and wheels his bike away from me. My chest tightens again, and it’s very possible I have some health problems I’m going to discover and die from today, but I’m hit with relief when Rufus parks his bike along the sidewalk, throwing down the kickstand with his foot. “Let me find you something for the bird,” he says. “Don’t touch it.”

I make sure no cars are coming from up the block.

Rufus returns with a discarded newspaper and hands it to me. “Best I can find.”

“Thanks.” I use the newspaper to scoop up the bird’s body and its severed head. I walk toward the community garden opposite the subway station, set right in between the basketball court and the playground.

Rufus appears beside me on his bike, pedaling slowly. “What are you doing with that?”

“Burying it.” I enter the garden and find a corner behind a tree, away from the spot where community gardeners have been planting fruit trees and flowers and making the world glow a little more. I kneel and place the newspaper down, nervous the head is going to roll away. Rufus hasn’t commented on it, but I feel the need to add, “I can’t just leave the bird out there to be tossed into a trash can or flattened by cars over and over and over.”

I like the idea of a bird that died so tragically ahead of its time resting amid life here in the garden. I even imagine that this tree was once a person, some Decker who was cremated and had asked to have their ashes packed into a biodegradable urn with a tree seed to give it life.

“It’s a couple minutes after four,” Rufus informs me.

“I’ll be fast.”

I take it he’s not the bury-a-bird type. I know many people won’t agree or understand this sentiment. After all, to most people, a bird is nothing compared to an actual human being, because actual human beings put on ties and go to work, they fall in love and get married, and they have kids and raise them. But birds do all of this too. They work—no ties, you got me there—and mate and nurture baby birds until they can fly. Some of them become pets who entertain children, children who learn to love and be kind to animals. Other birds are living until their time is up.

But this sentiment is a Mateo thing, meaning it’s always made others think I’m weird. I don’t share thoughts like these with just anyone, rarely even with Dad or Lidia.

Two fists can fit in this plot, and I’m shuffling the bird’s body and head off the newspaper and into the hole right when a flash goes off behind me. No, the first thing I thought wasn’t that an alien was beaming down warriors to take me out—okay, fine, it was. I turn to find Rufus aiming his phone’s camera at me.

“Sorry,” Rufus says. “Not every day you see someone burying a bird.”

I scoop the soil over the bird, smoothing it flat before standing. “I hope someone is this kind to us when it’s over.”

RUFUS

4:09 a.m.

Yo, Mateo is too good. Definitely not suspicious of him anymore, it’s not like he’s got it in him to jump me. But I’m mad shocked to meet someone so . . . pure? I wouldn’t say I’ve only ever surrounded myself with assholes, but Malcolm and Tagoe are never gonna bury a bird in their lives, let’s be real fucking clear about that. Beating down that bastard Peck tonight proves we’re not innocent. I’ll bet you anything Mateo has no idea how to make a fist and couldn’t imagine himself getting violent, not even when he was a kid and dumb shit was forgiven and written off because he was young.

There’s no way I’m telling him about Peck. I’ll take it to my grave today.

“We out to see who first?”

“My dad. We can take this subway.” Mateo points. “It’s only two stops downtown, but it’s safer than walking.”

Two stops downtown would be a quick five-minute bike ride for me, and I’m tempted to just meet him there, but my gut is telling me this Mateo kid will screw up and leave me hanging outside the train station. I carry my bike down the stairs by its handlebars and seat. I roll my bike around the corner while Mateo cautiously hangs back a bit, and I catch him peeking before following me, like when I went to that haunted house thing in Brooklyn with Olivia a few years ago—except I was a kid. I don’t know what he’s expecting to find, and I’m not asking either.

“You’re good,” I say. “Coast is clear.”

Mateo creeps behind me, still suspicious of the empty corridor leading to the turnstiles. “I wonder how many other Deckers are hanging out with strangers right now. A lot are probably dead by now. Car accident or fire or shot or fallen down a manhole or . . .” He stops himself. Dude really knows how to paint a picture of tragedy. “What if they were on their way to say bye to someone close to them and then—” Mateo claps. “Gone. It’s not fair. . . . I hope they weren’t alone.”