I kneel before my mother’s headstone. “Hey, Mom. You excited to meet me? I know you created me, but we’re still strangers when you think about it. I’m sure you’ve thought about this already. You’ve had a lot of time in your home theater where the credits start rolling because you died while I cried in some nurse’s arms. Maybe that nurse could’ve helped with the severe bleeding if she hadn’t been holding me. I don’t know. I’m really sorry you had to die so I could live, I really am. I hope you don’t send some border patrol to keep me out when I finally die.

“But I know you’re not like that, because of Dad’s stories. One of my favorites is the one where you were visiting your mother in the hospital, a few days before she died, and her roommate with Alzheimer’s kept asking you if you wanted to hear her secret. You said yes and yes over and over even though you knew full well that she used to hide chocolate from her kids when they were younger because she had a sweet tooth.” I place my palm on the headstone’s face, and it’s the closest I’ll come to holding her hand. “Mom, am I going to be able to find love up there since I never got the chance to find it down here?”

She doesn’t answer. There’s no mysterious warmth taking over me, no voice in the wind. But it’s okay. I’ll know soon enough.

“Please look after me today, Mom, one last time, because I know I’m not already dead like Rufus thinks we are, and I would like to have my life-changing day. See you later.”

I get up and turn to my open grave, which is maybe only three feet deep and uneven. I step in, sit down, and rest my back against the side the gravedigger hasn’t finished with yet. I keep my toy sanctuary on my lap, and I must look like a kid playing with blocks in a park.

“Can I join you?” Rufus asks.

“There’s only really room for one. Get your own grave.”

Rufus steps inside anyway, kicks my feet, and squeezes in, resting one leg on one of mine so he’ll fit. “No grave for me. I’m gonna be cremated like my family.”

“Do you still have their ashes? We could scatter them somewhere. The ‘Parting with Ashes’ forum on CountDowners is really popular and—”

“The Plutos and I took care of that a month back,” Rufus interrupts; I should try and rein in my stories about online strangers. “Scattered them outside my old building. I still felt mad empty afterward, but they’re home now. I want the Plutos to scatter my ashes elsewhere.”

“Where are you thinking? Pluto?”

“Althea Park,” Rufus says.

“I love that park,” I say.

“How do you know it?”

“I went there a lot when I was younger, always with my dad. He would teach me about different clouds, and I would shout out which clouds were in the sky while I was swinging toward them. Why do you like it there so much?”

“I don’t know. I end up there a lot. It’s where I kissed this girl, Cathy, for the first time. I went there after my family died, and after my first cycling marathon.”

Here we are, two boys sitting in a cemetery as it begins drizzling, trading stories in my half-dug grave, as if we’re not dying today. These moments of forgetting and relief are enough to push me through the rest of my day.

“Weird question: Do you believe in fate?” I ask.

“Weird answer: I believe in two fates,” Rufus says.

“Really?”

“No.” Rufus smiles. “I don’t even believe in one. You?”

“How else do you explain us meeting?” I ask.

“We both downloaded an app and agreed to hang out,” Rufus says.

“But look at us. My mom and your parents are dead. My father is out of commission. If our parents were around, we wouldn’t have found ourselves on Last Friend.” The app is designed mainly for adults, not teens. “If you can believe in two afterlives, you can believe in the universe playing puppet master. Can’t you?”

Rufus nods as the rain comes down harder on us. He stands first and offers me a hand. I take it. The poetry you could write about Rufus helping me out of my grave isn’t lost on me. I step out and walk over to my mother’s headstone, kissing her inscribed name. I leave my toy sanctuary against the stone. I turn in time to catch Rufus snapping a photo of me; capturing moments really is his thing.

I turn to my headstone one last time.

HERE LIES

MATEO TORREZ, JR.

JULY 17, 1999

They’ll add my End Day in no time: September 5, 2017.

My inscription, too. It’s okay that there’s a blank right now. I know what it will say and I know I’ll make sure I’ve lived as I’m claiming: He Lived for Everyone. The words will wear away over time, but they’ll have been true.

Rufus wheels his bike along the wet and muddy path, leaving tire tracks. I follow him, my insides feeling heavier with every footstep away from my mother and my open grave, knowing I’ll be back soon enough.

“You sold me on fate,” Rufus says. “Finish telling me about your afterlife.”

I do.

PART THREE

The Beginning

It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.

—Marcus Aurelius, Roman emperor

MATEO

12:22 p.m.

Twelve hours ago I received the phone call telling me I’m going to die today. In my own Mateo way, I’ve said tons of goodbyes already, to my dad, best friend, and goddaughter, but the most important goodbye is the one I said to Past Mateo, who I left behind at home when my Last Friend accompanied me into a world that has it out for us. Rufus has done so much for me and I’m here to help him confront any demons following him—except we can’t whip out any flaming swords or crosses that double as throwing stars like in fantasy books. His company has helped me and maybe mine will help him through any heartache too.

Twelve hours ago I received the phone call telling me I’m going to die today, and I’m more alive now than I was then.

RUFUS

12:35 p.m.

I don’t know where Mateo is leading me, but it’s all good because the rain stopped and I’m recharged and ready to go after getting a strong power nap on the train ride back into the city. It sucks how I didn’t dream, but no nightmares either. Win some, lose some.

I’m crossing out the Travel Arena because it’s mad busy at this time of day, as Mateo pointed out, so if we’re still alive in a few hours we have a better chance of not completely wasting away in lines. We have to wait for the herd to thin out, pretty much. Shitty way to think, but I’m not wrong. I hope whatever we’re doing isn’t some time-suck like Make-A-Moment. I’m betting it’s charity work, or maybe he’s been secretly chatting with Aimee and arranging a meet-up so she and I can make things right before I kick the bucket.

We’ve been in Chelsea for a solid ten minutes, in the park by the pier. I’m that guy I hate, the one who walks in the bike lane when there’s clearly a lane for walkers and joggers. My karma score is gonna be jacked, legit. Mateo leads me toward the pier, where I stop.

“You gonna try and throw me over?” I ask.