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.

As we walk around tombstones—many so deeply worn that the names are no longer visible, others with crosses planted in them so high they look like swords in rocks—and under large pin oak trees, Rufus tells me his theory on the afterlives.

“I think we’re already dead, dude. Not everyone, just Deckers. The whole Death-Cast thing seems too fantasy to be true. Knowing when our last day is going down so we can live it right? Straight-up fantasy. The first afterlife kicks off when Death-Cast tells us to live out our day knowing it’s our last; that way we’ll take full advantage of it, thinking we’re still alive. Then we enter the next and final afterlife without any regrets. You get me?”

I nod. “That’s interesting.” His afterlife is definitely more impressive and thoughtful than Dad’s—Dad believes in the usual golden-gated island in the sky. Still, the popular afterlife is better than no afterlife, like Lidia believes. “But wouldn’t it be better if we already knew we were dead so we’re not living in the fear of how it happens?”

“Nope.” Rufus wheels his bike around a stone cherub. “That defeats the purpose. It’s supposed to feel real and the risks should scare you and the goodbyes should suck. Otherwise it feels cheap, like Make-A-Moment. If you live it right, one day should be good. If we stay longer than that we turn into ghosts who haunt and kill, and no one wants that.”

We laugh on strangers’ graves, and even though we’re talking about our afterlives, I forget for a second that this is where we’ll end up. “What’s the next level? Do you get on an elevator and rise up?”

“Nah. Your time expires and, I don’t know, you fade or something and reappear in what people call ‘heaven.’ I’m not religious. I believe there’s some alien creator and somewhere for dead people to hang out, but I don’t credit all that as God and heaven.”

“Me too! Ditto on the God thing.” And maybe the rest of Rufus’s theory is right too. Maybe I’m already dead and have been paired with a life-changer to spend my last day with as a reward for daring to do something new, like trying the Last Friend app. Maybe. “What does your after-afterlife look like?”

“It’s whatever you want. No limitations. If you’re into angels and halos and ghost dogs, then cool. If you wanna fly, you do you. If you wanna go back in time, knock yourself out.”

“You’ve thought about this a lot,” I say.

“Late-night chats with the Plutos,” Rufus says.

“I hope reincarnation is real,” I say. I’m already finding that this one day to get everything right isn’t enough. This one life wasn’t enough. I tap headstones, wondering if anyone here has been reincarnated already. Maybe I was one of them. I failed Past Me if so.

“Me too. I want another shot, but not counting on it. What’s your afterlife look like?”

Coming up, there’s a large tomb that resembles a pale blue teapot, and I know my mother’s headstone is a few rows behind it. When I was younger I pretended this teapot tomb was a genie’s lamp. Wishing for my mother to come back and complete my family never worked.

“My afterlife is like a home theater where you can re-watch your entire life from start to finish. And let’s say my mother invited me into her theater—I could watch her life. I just hope someone knows what parts should fade to black so I’m not scarred my entire afterlife.” I couldn’t sell Lidia on this idea, but she did admit it sounded a little cool. “Oh! And there’s also this transcript of everything you’ve ever said since birth and—”

I shut up because we’ve reached the corner, and in the space beside my mother’s plot there’s a man digging another grave while a caretaker installs a headstone with my name and dates of birth and death.

I’m not even dead yet.

My hands shake and I almost drop my sanctuary.

“And . . . ?” Rufus asks, quickly following with “Oh.”

I walk toward my grave.

I know graves can be dug on an accelerated schedule, but it’s only been eleven hours since I even got the alert. I know my final headstone won’t be ready for days, but the temporary one isn’t what’s throwing me off. No one should ever witness someone digging their grave.

I’m hopeless too soon after believing Rufus is my life-changer. Rufus drops his bike. He walks up to the gravedigger and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Yo. Can we have a few minutes?”

The bearded gravedigger, dressed in a filthy plaid shirt, turns to me and then back to my mother’s plot. “Is this the kid’s mom?” He gets back to work.

“Yeah. And you’re in the middle of digging his grave,” Rufus says as trees rustle and a shovel scoops up earth.

“Yikes. My condolences all around, but me stopping ain’t going to do anything, except slow me down. I’m knocking this out early so I can leave town and—”

“I don’t care!” Rufus takes a step back, balling up his fists, and I’m scared he’s about to try to take this guy on. “So help me . . . Give us ten minutes! Go dig the grave of someone who isn’t standing right here!”

The other guy, the one who planted my headstone, drags the gravedigger away. They both curse about “Decker kids these days” but keep their distance.

I want to thank the men and Rufus, but I feel myself sinking, dizzy. I manage to stay upright and reach my mother’s headstone.

ESTRELLA ROSA-TORREZ

JULY 7, 1969

JULY 17, 1999

BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER

FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS

“Can I have a minute with my mom?” I don’t even turn around because I’m stuck staring at her End Day and my birth date.

“I won’t be far,” Rufus says. It’s possible he doesn’t go very far, maybe only a couple of feet, or maybe he doesn’t move at all, but I trust him. He’ll be there when I turn around.

Everything has come full circle between my mother and me. She died the day I was born and now I’ll be buried next to her. Reunion. When I was eight, I found it weird how she was credited as a “beloved” mother when the only mothering she did was carry me for nine months; ten years later, I know much better. But I couldn’t wrap my head around her even feeling like my mom because she never had the chance to play with me, to open her arms as I took my first steps so I could crash into her, to teach me to tie my shoes, none of that or anything else. But then Dad reminded me, in a gentle way, that she couldn’t do any of those things for me because the birth was complicated, “very hard,” he said, and that she made sure I was okay instead of taking care of herself. That’s definitely worthy of the “beloved” cred.