Howie’s tweet last night was a picture of his dinner.

He’s already sent out one last tweet: Thank you for this life. Attached is a photo, taken by himself, smiling.

“Who are you on your way to see?” the older woman asks. Sandy, he believes. Yes, Sandy. Not Sally like his very first publicist. Sandy.

“Is this part of the interview?” Howie asks. Whenever he does these pieces, his answers require zero focus, so he normally hops on his phone and scrolls through Twitter and Instagram. But keeping up with the outpouring of love, including messages from the author of the Scorpius Hawthorne series, is ten times more impossible than usual.

“It could be,” Sandy says. She lifts the tape recorder. “Your call.”

Howie wishes his publicist were here with him to shut down this question herself, but he wrote her a big check, had it sent down to her hotel room, and encouraged her to stay far away from him, as if he were infected with a zombie virus.

“Pass,” Howie says. It’s no one’s business that he’s on his way to see his childhood best friend and first love, Lena, who’s flown in from Arkansas to see him one last time. The girl who could’ve been more than a friend if he didn’t live in the spotlight. The girl he’d once missed so much he’d write her name around the city, like on pay phones and coffee tables, never signing his name. The girl who loves the quiet life her husband gives her.

“Very well,” Sandy says. “What’s your proudest accomplishment?”

“My art,” Howie says, fighting back an eye roll. The other woman, Delilah, stares at him like she’s seeing past his bullshit. Howie would be intimidated if he wasn’t busy being distracted by her beautiful hair, which resembles the northern lights, and the fresh bandage on her forehead, which is covering up a Scorpius Hawthorne–like wound.

“Where do you think you would be without the Draconian Marsh role?” Sandy asks.

“Literally? Back in San Juan with my parents. Professionally . . . Who can say.”

“Better question,” Delilah speaks up. Sandy is pissed and Delilah speaks over her. “What do you regret?”

“Excuse her,” Sandy says. “I’m firing her and she’s getting out at the next red light.”

Howie turns his attention to Delilah. “I love what I did. But I don’t know who I am beyond the voice of a Twitter account and the evil face for a franchise.”

“What would you have done differently?” Delilah asks.

“I probably wouldn’t have done that shitty college-bait film.” Howie smiles, surprised by his own humor on his last day ever. “I would’ve only done what meant a lot to me. Like the Scorpius films. That adaptation was one of a kind. But I should’ve used those fortunes to spend time with the people who mean a lot to me. Family and friends. I got caught up reinventing myself so I could land different roles and not be the evil wizard kid. For fuck’s sake, I’m in town to meet a publisher for another book I didn’t write.”

Delilah eyes the copy of Howie’s book, unsigned, sitting between her and her boss.

Former boss. It’s unclear.

“What would’ve made you happy?” Delilah asks.

Love comes to mind, immediately, and it surprises him like a lightning bolt on a day with clear forecasts. Howie never felt lonely, because he could go online at any moment and find himself flooded with messages. But affection from millions and intimacy from that one special person are completely different beasts.

“My life is a double-edged sword,” Howie says, not speaking of his life as if it’s already over as other defeated Deckers do. “I am where I am because my life moved as fast as it did. If I didn’t land that gig, maybe I would be in love with someone who loves me back. Maybe I would’ve been an actual son and not someone who thought being a bank account was enough. I could’ve taken time to learn Spanish so I could speak with my grandma without my mom translating.”

“If you weren’t successful and had all those things instead, would that have been enough for you?” Delilah asks. She’s sitting at the edge of her seat. Sandy is invested too.

“I think so—”

Howie shuts up as Delilah’s and Sandy’s eyes widen.

The car jerks and Howie closes his eyes, a deep sinking in his chest, like every time he’s been on a roller coaster, scaling higher and higher, past the point of no return, and he’s falling at incredible speed. Except Howie knows he’s not safe.

THE GANG WITH NO NAME

5:36 p.m.

Death-Cast did not call this gang of boys today, and they’re living as if this means their lives can’t be over while they’re alive. They run through the streets, not caring about traffic, as if they’re invincible against speeding cars and completely untouchable by the law. Two boys laugh when one car bangs into another, spinning out of control until it crashes against the wall. The third is too focused on reaching his target and pulling the handgun out of his backpack.

DELILAH GREY

5:37 p.m.

Delilah is still alive. She doesn’t have to test Howie’s pulse to know he isn’t. She saw the way his head banged against the reinforced window, heard the sickening crack that will stay with her forever—

Her heartbeat runs wild. In a single day, the same day when she received a call informing her she will die today, Delilah has not only survived an explosion by a bookstore, but also a car accident caused by three boys running through the street.

If Death wanted her, Death had two shots.

Delilah and Death won’t be meeting today.

RUFUS

5:39 p.m.

I wanna keep holding Mateo’s hand, but I gotta hug my people. I move through the crowd, pushing Deckers and others aside to get to the Plutos. We all hit Pause on ourselves—and press Play at the exact same second, like four cars moving at a green light. We group hug, four Plutos coming together in the Pluto Solar System embrace I’ve been wanting for over fifteen hours, ever since I ran out of my own damn funeral.

“I love you guys,” I say. No one cracks homo jokes. We’re past that. They shouldn’t be here, but taking risks is the name of the game today and I’m playing it. “You don’t smell like prison, Tagoe.”

“You should see my new ink,” Tagoe says. “We’ve seen shit.”

“We didn’t see shit,” Malcolm says.

“You guys ain’t shit,” I say.

“Not even house arrest,” Aimee says. “Damn shame.”

We pull apart, but stay really close, as if the crowd is forcing us to squeeze up against each other. They’re all staring at me. Tagoe looks like he wants to pet me. Malcolm looks like he’s seeing a ghost. Aimee looks like she wants another hug. I don’t let Tagoe treat me like a dog or shout “Boo!” at Malcolm, but I move in and hug the hell out of Aimee.

“My bad, Ames,” I say. I didn’t know I was sorry until I saw her face. “I shouldn’t have shut you out like that. Not on a damn End Day.”

“I’m sorry too,” Aimee says. “There’s only one side that matters to me and I’m sorry I was trying to play both. We didn’t have nearly as much time as we should’ve, but you’ll always be more important. Even after . . .”