Last Friend

Mateo

3:14 a.m.

I adjust the settings on my profile so I'll only be visible to anyone between

the ages of sixteen and eighteen; older men and women can no longer hit on

me. I take it one step further and now only registered Deckers can connect

with me so I don't have to deal with anyone looking to buy a couch or pot.

This diminishes the online numbers significantly. I'm sure there are

hundreds, maybe thousands, of teens who received the alert today, but there

are only eighty-nine registered Deckers between the ages of sixteen and

eighteen online right now. I receive a message from an eighteen-year-old

girl named Zoe, but I ignore it when I see a profile for a seventeen-year-old

named Rufus; I've always liked that name. I click on his profile.

Name: Rufus Emeterio

Age: 17.

Gender: Male.

Height: 5'10".

Weight: 169 lbs.

Ethnicity: Cuban-American.

Orientation: Bisexual.

Job: Professional Time Waster.

Interests: Cycling. Photography.

Favorite Movies / TV Shows / Books: <skip>

Who You Were in Life: I survived something I shouldn't have.

Bucket List: Do it up.

Final Thoughts: It's about time. I've made mistakes, but I'm gonna go

out right.

I want more time, more lives, and this Rufus Emeterio has already

accepted his fate. Maybe he's suicidal. Suicide can't be predicted

specifically, but the death itself is still foreseen. If he is self-destructive, I

shouldn't be around him—he might actually be the reason I'm about to

clock out. But his photo clashes with that theory: he's smiling and he has

welcoming eyes. I'll chat with him and, if I get a good vibe, he might be the

kind of guy whose honesty will make me face myself.

I'm going to reach out. There's nothing risky about hello.

Mateo T. (3:17 a.m.): sorry you'll be lost, Rufus.

I'm not used to reaching out to strangers like this. There have been a

few times in the past I considered setting up a profile to keep Deckers

company, but I didn't think I could provide much for them. Now that I'm a

Decker myself I understand the desperation to connect even more.

Rufus E. (3:19 a.m.): Hey, Mateo. Nice hat.

He not only responded, but he likes my Luigi hat from my profile

picture. He's already connecting to the person I want to become.

Mateo T. (3:19 a.m.): Thanks. Think I'm going to leave the hat here at

home. I don't want the attention.

Rufus E. (3:19 a.m.): Good call. A Luigi hat isn't exactly a baseball

cap, right?

Mateo T. (3:19 a.m.): Exactly.

Rufus E. (3:20 a.m.): Wait. You haven't left your house yet?

Mateo T. (3:20 a.m.): Nope.

Rufus E. (3:20 a.m.): Did you just get the alert a few minutes ago?

Mateo T. (3:20 a.m.): Death-Cast called me a little after midnight.

Rufus E. (3:20 a.m.): What have you been doing all night?

Mateo T. (3:20 a.m.): Cleaning and playing video games.

Rufus E. (3:20 a.m.): Which game?

Rufus E. (3:21 a.m.): N/m the game doesn't matter. Don't you have

stuff you wanna do? What are you waiting for?

Mateo T. (3:21 a.m.): I was talking to potential Last Friends and they

were . . . not great, is the kindest way to put it.

Rufus E. (3:21 a.m.): Why do you need a Last Friend before starting

your day?

Mateo T. (3:22 a.m.): Why do YOU need a Last Friend when you have

friends?

Rufus E. (3:22 a.m.): I asked you first.

Mateo T. (3:22 a.m.): Fair. I think it's insane to leave the apartment

knowing something or SOMEONE is going to kill me. Also because

there are "Last Friends" out there claiming they have the cure to death

in their pants.

Rufus E. (3:23 a.m.): I spoke to that dick too! Not his dick, exactly.

But I reported and blocked him afterward. I promise I'm better than that

guy. I guess that's not saying much. Do you wanna video-chat? I'll send

you the invite.

An icon of a silhouette speaking into a phone flashes. I almost reject the

call, too confused about the suddenness of this moment, but I answer before

the call goes away, before Rufus goes away. The screen goes black for a

second, and then a total stranger with the face Rufus has in his profile

appears. He's sweating and looking down, but his eyes quickly find me and

I feel exposed, maybe even a little threatened, like he's some scary

childhood legend that can reach through the screen and drag me into a dark

underworld. In my overactive imagination's defense, Rufus has already

tried bullying me out of my own world and into the world beyond, so—

"Yo," Rufus says. "You see me?"

"Yeah, hey. I'm Mateo."

"Hey, Mateo. My bad for springing the video chat on you," Rufus says.

"Kind of hard to trust someone you can't see, you get me?"

"No worries," I say. There's a glare, which is a little blinding wherever

he is, but I can still make out his light brown face. I wonder why he's so

sweaty.

"You wanted to know why I'd prefer a Last Friend over my real-life

friends, right?"

"Yeah," I say. "Unless that's too personal."

"Nah, don't worry about that. I don't think 'too personal' should exist

between Last Friends. Long story short: I was with my parents and sister

when our car crashed into the Hudson River and I had to watch them die.

Living with that guilt isn't something I want for my friends. I have to throw

that out there and make sure that you're okay with this."

"With you leaving your friends behind?"

"No. The chance you might have to watch me die."

I'm being faced with the heaviest of chances today: I may have to watch

him die, unless it's the other way around, and both possibilities make me

want to throw up. It's not that I feel a deep connection or anything to him

already, but the idea of watching anyone die makes me sick and sad and

angry—and that's why he's asking. But not doing anything is hardly

comforting, either. "Okay, yeah. I can do it."

"Can you? There's the whole you-not-leaving-your-house problem. Last

Friend or not, I'm not spending the rest of my life holed up in someone's

apartment—and I don't want you to either, but you gotta meet me halfway,

Mateo," Rufus says. The way he says my name is a little more comforting

than the way I imagined that creep Philly would say it; it's more like a

conductor giving a pep talk before a sold-out performance. "Believe me, I

know it can get ugly out here. There was a point where I didn't think any of

this was worthwhile."

"Well, what changed?" I don't mean it to sound like a challenge, but it

kind of is. I'm not leaving the safety of my apartment that easily. "You lost

your family and then what?"

"I wasn't about this life," Rufus says, looking away. "And I would've

been game with game over. But that's not what my parents and sis wanted

for me. It's mad twisted, but surviving showed me it's better to be alive

wishing I was dead than dying wishing I could live forever. If I can lose it

all and change my attitude, you need to do the same before it's too late,

dude. You gotta go for it."

Go for it. That's what I said in my profile. He's paid more attention than

the others and cared about me the way a friend should.

"Okay," I say. "How do we do this? Is there a handshake or

something?" I'm really hoping my trust isn't betrayed the way it's been in

the past.

"We can get a handshake going when we meet, but until then I promise

to be the Mario to your Luigi, except I won't hog the spotlight. Where we

should we meet? I'm by the drugstore south of—"

"I have one condition," I say. His eyes squint; he's probably nervous

about the curveball I'm throwing his way. "You said I have to meet you

halfway, but you need to pick me up from home. It's not a trap, I swear."

"Sounds like a trap," Rufus says. "I'm gonna find a different Last

Friend."

"It's really not! I swear." I almost drop the phone. I've screwed

everything up. "Seriously, I—"

"I'm kidding, dude," he says. "I'll send you my phone number and you

can text me your address. Then we can come up with a plan."

I'm just as relieved as I was when Andrea from Death-Cast called me

Timothy during the call, when I thought I'd actually lucked into more life.

Except this time it's okay to fully relax—I think. "Will do," I say.

He doesn't say bye or anything, he just looks at me for a little longer,

likely sizing me up, or maybe questioning whether or not I'm actually

luring him into a trap.

"See you in a bit, Mateo. Try not to die before I get there."

"Try not to die getting here," I say. "Be safe, Rufus."

Rufus nods and ends the video chat. He sends me his phone number and

I'm tempted to call it to make sure he's the one who picks up, and not some

creep who's paying him to collect addresses of young vulnerable guys. But

if I keep second-guessing Rufus, this Last Friend business won't work.

I am a little concerned about spending my End Day with someone

who's accepted dying, someone who's made mistakes. I don't know him,

obviously, and he might turn out to be insanely destructive—he is outside in

the middle of the night on a day he's slated for death, after all. But no

matter what choices we make—solo or together—our finish line remains

the same. It doesn't matter how many times we look both ways. It doesn't

matter if we don't go skydiving to play it safe, even though it means we'll

never get to fly like my favorite superheroes do. It doesn't matter if we keep

our heads low when passing a gang in a bad neighborhood.

No matter how we choose to live, we both die at the end.