Mateo's Reminisce

Mateo

1:32 a.m.

Scrolling through CountDowners is a very serious downer. But I can't look

away because every registered Decker has a story they want to share. When

someone puts their journey out there for you to watch, you pay attention—

even if you know they'll die at the end.

If I'm not going outside, I can be online for others.

There are five tabs on the site—Popular, New, Local, Promoted,

Random—and I browse through Local searches first, as usual, to make sure

I don't recognize anyone. . . . No one; good.

It could've been nice to have some company today, I guess.

I randomly select a Decker. Username: Geoff_Nevada88. Geoff

received his call four minutes after midnight and is already out in the world,

heading to his favorite bar, where he hopes he doesn't get carded because

he's a twenty-year-old who recently lost his fake ID. I'm sure he'll get

through okay. I pin his feed and will receive a chime next time he updates.

I switch to another feed. Username: WebMavenMarc. Marc is a former

social media manager for a soda company, which he's mentioned twice in

his profile, and he isn't sure if his daughter will reach him in time. It's

almost as if this Decker is right in front of me, snapping his fingers in my

face.

I have to visit Dad, even if he's unconscious. He has to know I made my

way to him before I died.

I put down my laptop, ignoring the chimes from the couple accounts

I've pinned, and go straight to Dad's bedroom. His bed was unmade the

morning he left for work, but I've made it for him since then, making sure

to tuck the comforter completely under the pillows, as he prefers it. I sit on

his side of the bed—the right side, since my mother apparently always

favored the left, and even with her gone he still lives his life in two sides,

never writing her out—and I pick up the framed photo of Dad helping me

blow out the candles of my Toy Story cake on my sixth birthday. Well, Dad

did all the work. I was laughing at him. He says the gleeful look on my face

is why he keeps this picture so close.

I know it's sort of strange, but Dad is just as much my best friend as

Lidia is. I could never admit that out loud without someone making fun of

me, I'm sure, but we've always had a great relationship. Not perfect, but

I'm sure every two people out there—in my school, in this city, on the other

side of the world—struggle with dumb and important things, and the closest

pairs just find a way to get over them. Dad and I would never have one of

those relationships where we had a falling-out and never talked to each

other again, not like these Deckers on some CountDowners feeds who hate

their fathers so much they either never visited them on their deathbeds or

refused to make amends before they themselves died. I slip the photo out of

the frame, fold it, and put it in my pocket—the creases won't bother Dad, I

don't think—and get up to go to the hospital and say my goodbye and make

sure this photo is by his side when he finally wakes up. I want to make sure

he quickly finds some peace, like it's an ordinary morning, before someone

tells him I'm gone.

I leave his room, pumped to go out and do this, when I see the stack of

dishes in the sink. I should clean those up so Dad doesn't come home to

dirty plates and mugs with impossible stains from all the hot chocolate I've

been drinking.

I swear this isn't an excuse to not go outside.

Seriously.