“If all goes well,” Dr. Emeterio says as she studies my X-ray. “Your contribution today may change the future of all heart transplants.”

“I won’t even get to see it.”

The silence is short-lived, like I’ll be. There’s a beeping machine that’s carrying on. No fear of being turned off or unplugged forever.

“I promise I don’t think of you as some test subject,” Dr. Emeterio says, meeting my eyes. “I was only hoping to offer some comfort, but I’m sorry for being out of line.”

“No, you’re fine. It’s just strange how I’ll be gone and not know how everything turns out.”

“If only Death-Cast could clue us in on all that too,” Dr. Emeterio says.

If only.

I’d love another call with Joaquin Rosa where he answers all my burning questions. Will I change the future of heart transplants? Will Orion actually survive the procedure? Will Scarlett live a happy life? Then there’s the scariest question of all. No, it’s not about the afterlife. I’m not concerned about that. Once I’m dead, I’m dead. I’m not expecting much beyond that, especially as I’m struggling with my faith. What I am concerned about is the Big How—how will I die today? Death-Cast isn’t like Catholicism where I’m asked to trust in God and his reasons and his heaven without any evidence. There’s clearly concrete proof about Death-Cast’s abilities that gained the support of the president and the government and beyond.

I’m supposed to believe Death-Cast knows the When, but not the How?

I don’t buy it.

Someone has to know.

“I have your results,” Dr. Emeterio says.

Deep in my heart, I already know the answer.

Orion

2:17 a.m.

I’m staring at my X-ray like it’s ugly art on a wall.

An eighteen-year-old’s heart isn’t supposed to look like some misshapen potato, but that’s what I think every time I’m shown my insides. Doctors were always quick to show me what a healthy heart looks like, like I didn’t know already.

“I bet Valentino’s X-rays are as good as his pictures,” I say.

Dalma picks up a plastic heart replica. “You’ve never seen his pictures.”

“He booked a huge campaign. They’ve got to be good. His X-rays have got to be model-worthy too.”

Then my head drops because this world is about to lose thousands of Valentino Prince pictures.

Dalma hops up beside me on the bed, the paper sheet crinkling under her, and holds my hand. “Hey, O-Bro. Real talk. I’m getting concerned about you.”

“Look, if it’s not his heart, I’m not sweating it. We’ll find a match.”