It’s time to call the very first Decker and tell them they are going to die today.

Orion

12:01 a.m.

Death-Cast is calling.

So this is it, that bastard grim reaper is finally getting me. I won’t get to see how this first year of Death-Cast plays out or the one after and so on and so on and so on and so on. I might not even make it through the hour before I become past tense. I can’t breathe, and I feel like I might drop dead right now. My heart is beating, pounding, hammering, and it’s pulsing even faster than the Death-Cast ringtone, which sounds like a church bell being rattled around by some kid. The alert is getting louder, louder, louder as all the demo videos warned it would to make sure the calls don’t go missed. And even though the alert is only for me, it’s ending all the life around me—everyone is reaching for their own phones before realizing it’s my End Day, not theirs, because they have all the time in the world.

I’m huddled up with Dalma and Valentino, but I can’t look at them, I can’t see it in their eyes how real this is.

One minute ago, Death-Cast went live, and now I’m going to die, something I’ve been prepping for the past few years of my life, and I’m still not ready to go—I’m still not ready; I don’t want to go; I want to stay, stay, stay.

I grab my phone even though I don’t want to answer my End Day call. But then I see the phone is dark, still, and silent. No DEATH-CAST caller ID, no vibration, no ringing.

They’re not calling me.

My heart doesn’t slow down, it’s still hammering as I look up and see Valentino holding his phone as it screams the warning of a lifetime.

Valentino

12:02 a.m.

Death-Cast is calling to tell me I’m about to die, but my life is only getting started.

This has to be a mistake.

Orion and Dalma and a bunch of strangers look horrified. They shouldn’t, though. There’s no way I’m dying. Death-Cast is new, and they’re bound to get some things wrong. Once I clear this up, we can all go back to partying.

“Don’t worry,” I say to Orion and Dalma. “I’m sure a bunch of people just got calls they’re not supposed to receive.”

“Like a pocket dial?” Dalma asks. “I don’t think Death-Cast heralds are—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but the heralds are humans too.” I nod over at the extraterrestrial believers with their eyes to the sky, waiting to be abducted. “So unless the heralds are actually aliens and we got all this wrong, we should leave room for human error.”