I scroll through the photos I took from the beginning of the day, skipping over the ones from my time before meeting Mateo and starting with my first color photo. “We did a lot of living today.” I give him the full recap as I go from photo to photo: a sneaky shot of Mateo in Wonderland, which I never got to show him; the two of us dressed up like aviators at Make-A-Moment, where we went “skydiving”; the graveyard of pay phones where we discussed mortality; Mateo sleeping on the train, holding his Lego sanctuary; Mateo sitting inside his half-dug grave; the Open Bookstore window, minutes before we survived an explosion; that dude riding my bike I no longer wanted because Mateo was scared it would be the death of us, but not after one first and last ride together; adventures in the Travel Arena; outside of Clint’s Graveyard, where Mateo and I sang and danced and kissed and ran for our lives; Mateo jumping around on his bed for me; and our last photo together, me in Mateo’s glasses and he’s squinting but so damn happy.
I’m happy too. Even now when I’m destroyed again, Mateo repaired me.
I play the video, which I could listen to on loop. “And here he was singing me ‘Your Song,’ which he said you sung too. Mateo acted like he was singing only because he wanted to make me feel special. I no doubt did, but I know he was singing for himself too. He loved singing even though he wasn’t very good, ha. He loved singing and you and Lidia and Penny and me and everyone.”
Mr. Torrez’s heart monitor doesn’t respond to Mateo’s song or my stories. No skips, nothing. It’s heartbreaking, this whole thing. Mr. Torrez stuck here alive, nowhere to go. Maybe it’s an even bigger slap in the face than dying young. But maybe he’ll wake up. I bet he’ll feel like the last man in the world after losing his son, even though thousands will surround him every day.
There’s a picture on top of the chest beside Mr. Torrez’s bed. It’s Mateo as a kid, his dad, and a Toy Story cake. Kid Mateo looks so damn happy. Makes me wish I’d known him since childhood.
An extra week, even.
Extra hour.
Just more time.
On the back of the photo there’s a message:
Thank you for everything, Dad.
I’ll be brave, and I’ll be okay.
I love you from here to there.
Mateo
I stare at Mateo’s handwriting. He wrote this today and he delivered.
I need Mateo’s dad to know about what his son was up to. I dig into my pocket and there’s my drawing of the world from when Mateo and I first sat down this morning at my favorite diner. It’s beat up and a little wet, but it’ll do. I grab a pen from inside the chest drawer and write around the world.
Mr. Torrez,
I’m Rufus Emeterio. I was Mateo’s Last Friend. He was mad brave on his End Day.
I took photos all day on Instagram. You gotta see how he lived. My username is @RufusonPluto. I’m really happy your son reached out to me on what could’ve been the worst day ever.
Sorry for your loss,
Rufus (9/5/17)
I fold up the note and leave it with the picture.
I head out the room, shaking. I don’t go looking for Mateo’s body. That’s not what he would’ve wanted in my final minutes.
I leave the hospital.
10:36 p.m.
The hourglass is almost out of sand. It’s getting creepy. I’m picturing Death stalking me, hiding behind cars and bushes, ready to swing his damn scythe.
I’m mad tired, not just physically, but straight emotionally drained. This is how I felt after losing my family. Full-force grief I have no chance pulling myself out of without time, which we know I don’t have.
I’m making my way back to Althea Park to wait this night out. No matter how normal that is for me, I can’t get myself to stop shaking ’cause I can be alert as all hell right now and it won’t change what’s going down mad soon. I also miss my family and that Mateo kid so much. And yo, there better be an afterlife and Mateo better make it easy to find him like he promised. I wonder if Mateo found his mother yet. I wonder if he told her about me. If I find my family first, we’ll have our hug-it-out moment, and then I’ll recruit them in my Mateo manhunt. Then who knows what comes next.
I throw on my headphones and watch the video of Mateo singing to me.
I see Althea Park in the distance, my place of great change.
I return my attention to the video, his voice blasting in my ears.
I cross the street without an arm to hold me back.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I survived writing another book! And I definitely didn’t do this alone.
As always, huge thanks to my agent, Brooks Sherman, for greenlighting my gut-punching pitches and for finding my book-shaped things the best homes. I’ll never forgot how excited he was to hear I was writing a book titled They Both Die at the End, or how he texted me back around six a.m. when I finished the first draft. My editor, Andrew Harwell, deserves ten thousand raises for helping me turn this book-shaped thing into a “dark game of Jenga”—his genius words, not mine. The countless rewrites for this book still weren’t easy, and they would’ve been impossible without Andrew’s attentive eye and thoughtful heart/brain.
Huge thanks to the entire HarperCollins team for embracing me. Rosemary Brosnan is a fierce joy in this universe. Erin Fitzsimmons and artist Simon Prades created this undeniably gorgeous and clever cover—legit love at first sight. Margot Wood is always casting Epic witchcraft and wizardry. Thanks to Laura Kaplan for all things publicity, Bess Braswell and Audrey Diestelkamp for all things marketing, and Patty Rosati for all things School & Library. Janet Fletcher and Bethany Reis made me look smarter. Kate Jackson championed this book before even meeting me. And to the many people whose fingerprints are on this book, I look forward to meeting you and learning your names.
The Bent Agency, especially Jenny Bent, for championing my books.
My assistant, Michael D’Angelo, for continuing to boss me around. And his crying selfies.
My friend group has grown because of words we wrote and that will never not be cool to me. My sister/work wife, Becky Albertalli, and my bro/fake husband, David Arnold-Silvera, for group chats and group hugs. Corey Whaley, the first person I hit up when I had the idea for this book in December 2012. My wealth of unbelievable friendships also includes Jasmine Warga, Sabaa Tahir, Nicola Yoon, Angie Thomas, Victoria Aveyard, Dhonielle Clayton, Sona Charaipotra, Jeff Zentner, Arvin Ahmadi, Lance Rubin, Kathryn Holmes, and Ameriie. And then the friends who have been there long before More Happy Than Not, like Amanda and Michael Diaz, who have suffered me since the very beginning of our lives, and Luis Rivera, who is a literal lifesaver. Thank you all for always knowing when to get me away from the laptop and ultimately inspiring me to return to each story.
Lauren Oliver, Lexa Hillyer, and the entire Glasstown gang. I’ve never had the privilege of writing a book through the company, but I’ve learned so much about storytelling by working with this beyond-talented group.
Grateful for early feedback from Hannah Fergesen, Dahlia Adler, and Tristina Wright, to name a few.
My mom, Persi Rosa, and Gemini soul-sister, Cecilia Renn, my role models and cheerleaders who’ve always encouraged me to chase every dream (and every dude).
Keegan Strouse, who proved someone can change the game up on you in under twenty-four hours.
Every reader, bookseller, librarian, educator, and publishing badass who give us their everything to keep books alive. The universe sucks less because of all of you.
And, lastly, to every stranger who didn’t call the cops on me when I asked them “What would you do if you found out you were about to die?” None of your answers inspired anything in this book, but wasn’t it absolutely fun having a stranger make you observe your mortality?
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by K. W. Strauss
ADAM SILVERA is the New York Times bestselling author of More Happy Than Not and History Is All You Left Me, and he was named a Publishers Weekly Flying Start. Adam was born and raised in the Bronx. He was a bookseller before shifting to children’s publishing and has worked at a literary development company and a creative writing website for teens and as a book reviewer of children’s and young adult novels. He is tall for no reason and lives in New York City. Visit him online at www.adamsilvera.com.
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BOOKS BY ADAM SILVERA
More Happy Than Not
History Is All You Left Me
They Both Die at the End
CREDITS
Cover art by Simon Prades
Cover design by Erin Fitzsimmons
COPYRIGHT
THEY BOTH DIE AT THE END. Copyright © 2017 by Adam Silvera. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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ISBN 978-0-06-245779-0 (hardcover bdg.)
ISBN 978-0-06-268851-4 (international edition)
EPub Edition © August 2017 ISBN 9780062457813
17 18 19 20 21 PC/LSCH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
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Adam Silvera, They Both Die at the End
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