Rufus taps my plate with his fork. “How’s my usual looking for you?”

“I haven’t had French toast in years. My dad really got into making BLTs on toasted tortillas every morning instead.” I kind of forgot French toast was even a thing, but that cinnamon smell restores many memories of eating breakfast across from Dad at our rickety table while we listened to the news or brainstormed lists he should write. “This is pretty perfect. Do you want some?”

Rufus nods, but doesn’t reach over to my plate. His mind is elsewhere as he plays around with his salad, seemingly disappointed and only eating the chicken. He drops his fork and grabs the notepad and pen Rae left behind. He sketches a circle, bold. “I wanted to travel the world taking photos.”

Rufus is drawing the world, outlining the countries he’ll never get to visit.

“Like a photojournalist?” I ask.

“Nah. I wanted to do my own thing.”

“We should go to the Travel Arena,” I say. “It’s the best way to travel the world in a single day. CountDowners speak highly of it.”

“I never read that stuff,” Rufus says.

“I read it daily,” I admit. “It’s comforting seeing other people breaking out.”

Rufus glances up from his drawing, shaking his head. “Your Last Friend is gonna make sure you go out with a bang. Not a bad bang, or a you-know-what bang, but a good bang. That made no sense.”

“I get it.” I think.

“What did you see yourself doing? Like, as a job?” Rufus asks.

“An architect. I wanted to build homes and offices and stages and parks,” I say. I don’t tell him how I never wanted to work in any of those offices, or that I’ve also dreamt of performing on a stage I’ve built. “I played with Legos a lot as a kid.”

“Same. My spaceships always came apart. Those smiling block-headed pilots never stood a chance.” Rufus reaches over and carves himself a piece of French toast and then chews it, savoring the bite with his head down and eyes closed. It’s hard watching someone swallow their favorite food one last time.

I have to get it together.

Things usually get worse before they get better, but today has to be the flip side.

Once our plates are clear, Rufus stands and gets Rae’s attention. “Could we get the check when you have a sec?”

“It’s on us,” Rae says.

“Please let us pay. It would mean a lot to me,” I say. I hope she doesn’t see it as a guilt card.

“Seconded,” Rufus says. Rufus may not be able to return here again, but we want to make sure they remain open for as long as possible for others, and money is how they pay the bills.

Rae nods vigorously, and she hands us a check. I hand her my debit card, and when she comes back, I tip her triple the inexpensive meal’s cost.

I have less than two thousand dollars after this debit charge. I may not be able to restart anyone’s life with this money, but every bit helps.

Rufus puts his drawing of the world inside his pocket. “Ready to go?”

I remain seated.

“Getting up means leaving,” I say.

“Yeah,” Rufus says.

“Leaving means dying,” I say.

“Nah. Leaving means living before you die. Let’s bounce.”

I stand, thanking Rae and the busboy and the host as we leave.

Today is one long morning. But I have to be the one who wakes up and gets out of bed. I look ahead at the empty streets, and I start walking toward Rufus and his bike, walking toward death with every minute we lose, walking against a world that’s against us.

RUFUS

5:53 a.m.

I can’t front, Mateo is cool and neurotic and fine company, but it would’ve been really dope to have one last sit-down at Cannon’s with the Plutos, talking about all the good and bad things that have gone down. But it’s too risky. I know what’s good with me and I’m not risking getting them hurt.

They could hit me back with a text, though.

I unchain my bike and wheel it out onto the street. I toss the helmet to Mateo, who just barely catches it. “So Lidia is right off where again?”

“Why are you giving me this?” Mateo asks.

“So you don’t crack your head open if you fall off the bike.” I sit on the bike. “It would suck if your Last Friend killed you.”

“This isn’t a tandem bike,” he says.

“There are pegs,” I say. Tagoe would ride on the back pegs all the time, trusting me to not crash into any cars and send him flipping off.

“You want me to stand on the back of your bike while we ride in darkness?” Mateo asks.

“While wearing a helmet,” I say. Holy shit, I really thought he was ready to take chances.

“No. This bike is going to be the death of us.”

This day is really doing a number on him. “No it won’t. Trust me. I’ve ridden this bike every day for almost two years. Hop on, Mateo.”

He’s mad hesitant, that’s obvious, but he forces the helmet onto his head. There’s extra pressure to be cautious because I’d hate for an “I told you so!” in the afterlife. Mateo holds on to my shoulders, pressing down on them as he gets on the pegs. He’s stepping his game up, I’m proud of him. It’s like pushing a bird out of its nest—maybe even shoving because it should’ve flown out years ago.

A grocery store down the block is opening its roll-up doors for business as the moon hangs high above this bank up ahead. I press down on a pedal when Mateo hops off.

“Nope. I’m walking. And I think you should too.” He unbuckles the helmet, takes it off his head, and hands it to me. “Sorry. I just have a bad feeling and I have to trust my gut.”

I should throw on the helmet and ride away. Let Mateo go to Lidia, and I can do my thing, whatever that is. But instead of parting ways, I hang my helmet off the handlebars and swing my leg over the seat. “We should get walking then. I don’t know how much life we have left but I don’t want to miss it.”

MATEO

6:14 a.m.

I’m already the worst Last Friend ever. It’s time to be the worst best friend.

“This is going to suck,” I say.

“Because you’re not outing your death?”

“I’m not dead yet.” I turn the corner. Lidia’s apartment is a couple blocks away. “And no.” The sky is finally lightening up, the orange haze of my final sunrise ready to take over. “Lidia was destroyed when we found out her boyfriend-future-husband-person was dying. He never got to meet Penny.”

“I take it Penny is their daughter,” Rufus says.

“Yeah. She was born a week after Christian died.”

“How’d that go? The call?” Rufus asks. “If that’s too personal you don’t have to tell me. My family getting their call was a nightmare and I’m not a big fan of talking about that either.”

I’m about to trust him with this story as long as he promises not to tell anyone, especially not Lidia, when I realize Rufus will die with this story. Short of him gossiping in some afterlife, I’m safe to tell him anything and everything. “Christian was traveling to outer Pennsylvania to sell these weird daggers and swords he inherited from his grandfather to this collector.”