“You not talking shit now, huh?” Peck asks. His hand is shaking.

“Don’t do this. Please.” Aimee shakes her head. “This will end your life too.”

“You begging for him, right? You don’t give a shit about me.”

“I will never give a shit about you if you do this.”

She better not be saying this just to calm him down, because I will haunt the hell out of these two if they actually stay together. I wanna take my shot at hiding behind Malcolm for a second and dashing toward Peck, but that’s not gonna get me far.

Mateo.

He’s coming up behind Peck and I shake my head at him, which Peck sees. Peck turns and I run at him because Mateo’s life is threatened. Mateo punches Peck in the face, which is straight unbelievable, and it doesn’t send Peck to the floor or nothing like that, but we got a chance now. Peck’s homie swings at Mateo and is about to rock his head off his shoulders, but he pulls back at the last second, like he recognizes him—I don’t know, but Mateo finally steps back. Peck lunges for Mateo and I charge at him, but Malcolm beats me to it, running into Peck and his boy like a train, carrying them through the air as the gun drops, and he slams them against the wall.

The gun doesn’t go off, we all good.

Peck’s other boy goes for the gun and I kick him in the face as he goes to grab it, and Tagoe jumps on top of him. I grab the gun. I can try and end Peck for good and keep Aimee safe from him. I point the gun at him as Malcolm clears away. Mateo is looking at me the way he did when I caught up with him after he ran away from me. Like I’m dangerous.

I unload the gun.

All the bullets find their way into the wall.

I grab Mateo and we jet because Peck and his people are here to kill and we’re the ones most likely to find a knife in our necks or bullets in our heads.

This day is doing me dirty on goodbyes.

DALMA YOUNG

6:20 p.m.

Death-Cast did not call Dalma Young because she isn’t dying today, but if they had, she would’ve spent the day with her half sister, and maybe even a Last Friend—she created the app, after all.

“I promise you don’t want to work for me,” Dalma says, her arm interlocked with her half sister’s as they cross the street. “I don’t want to work for me. This job has become such a job.”

“But this internship is so stupid,” Dahlia says. “If I’m going to work this hard in tech, I might as well get paid triple what I’m receiving now.” Dahlia is the most impatient twenty-year-old in New York. She refuses to slow down and is always ready to move from one phase of her life to the next. When she started dating her last girlfriend, she brought up getting married within a week. And now she wants to turn her tech internship into a Last Friend job. “Whatever. How did the meetings go? Did you get to meet Mark Zuckerberg?”

“Meetings went really well,” Dalma says. “Twitter may launch the feature as soon as next month. Facebook may need a little more time.”

Dalma is in town meeting with developers from both Twitter and Facebook. This morning, she pitched a new Last Message feature that will allow respective users to prepare their final tweets/statuses so their online legacy is more meaningful than, say, their thoughts on a popular movie or some viral video of someone else’s dog.

“What do you think your Last Message would be?” Dahlia asks. “I’ll probably go with that Moulin Rouge! quote about how the greatest thing in the world is to love and be loved in return and yadda blah whatever.”

“Yeah, you seem truly passionate about that quote, sis,” Dalma says.

Dalma has given thought to this question, of course. Last Friend has been an incredible resource over the past two years, since its prototype stage, but she’ll forever be horrified by the eleven Last Friend serial killings last summer. She was tempted to sell the app, wash the blood from her hands. But there have been so many instances where the app has done good, like this afternoon on the train when she overheard a conversation between two young women, smiling at each other when one said she was so grateful she reached out over Last Friend, and learning the other loves the movement so much she tags the city with graffiti to promote the app.

Her app.

Before Dalma can answer, two teen boys run past her. One with a buzz cut, brown complexion shades lighter than her own, and another with glasses, fuller brown hair, and light tan skin like Dahlia’s. The first teen trips, the other helping him up, and they take off again, who knows where. She wonders if they’re half siblings with only a mother in common too. Maybe they’re lifelong friends constantly up to no good and constantly lifting each other up.

Maybe they’ve just met.

Dalma watches the teens run off. “My Last Message would be to find your people. And to treat each day like a lifetime.”

MATEO

6:24 p.m.

We’re in the clear, sinking against a wall, like earlier when I was breaking down after running away from Lidia’s. I want to be somewhere safe, like a locked room, not out here where people can hunt down Rufus. Rufus holds my hand and wraps his arm around my shoulders, holding me close.

“Props on punching Peck,” Rufus says.

“First time I’ve ever hit anyone,” I say. I’m still in shock from all my firsts—singing in public, kissing Rufus, dancing, punching someone, hearing bullets that close.

“Though you really shouldn’t punch people with guns,” Rufus says. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

I stare out into the street, still trying to catch my breath. “Are you criticizing how I saved your life?”

“I could’ve turned around and you would’ve been dead. I’m not having that.”

I have no regrets. I go back in time and imagine myself being a little slower, maybe tripping, and losing valuable time and losing my valuable friend as bullets rip apart his beautiful heart.

I almost lost Rufus. We have less than six hours left, and if he goes first, I’ll be a zombie who’s well aware his head is on the chopping block. The connection I have with Rufus isn’t what I expected when I met him around three in the morning.

This day is unimaginably rewarding and still so, so impossible.

I’m tearing up and there’s no stopping there. I finally cry because I want more mornings.

“I miss everyone,” I say. “Lidia. The Plutos.”

“Me too,” Rufus says. “But we can’t risk their lives again.”

I nod. “The suspense of everything is killing me. I can’t take being out here.” My chest is tight. There’s a huge difference between living fearlessly, like I’ve finally been doing, and knowing you have something to fear while you’re out living. “Will you hate me if I want to go home? I want to rest in my bed where everything is safe and I want you to come with me, but inside this time. I know I spent my life hiding there, but I did my best to live, too, and I want to share this place with you.”

Rufus squeezes my hand. “Take me home, Mateo.”

THE PLUTOS

6:33 p.m.

Death-Cast did not call these three Plutos because they aren’t dying today, but their fourth did receive the alert and that’s just as devastating. The Plutos almost witnessed the death of their best friend, Rufus, as a gun was pulled on him. Rufus’s Last Friend appeared out of nowhere like a superhero and punched Peck in the face, saving Rufus’s life—for a little while longer, at least. The Plutos know Rufus won’t survive the day, but they didn’t lose him to a violent act from someone who had it out for him.