It’s quiet again. Heart transplants are supposed to feel more dramatic with more noise. Hospital doors banging open. Fast footsteps. Nurses shouting patients’ stats. Crash carts being prepared for surgery. But there’s been a lot of silence tonight because we have time. Or at least we think we do. That ceiling light could drop on my head now before I even make it to the operating table. Things would really start getting noisy then to claim my heart while they can.

“Am I going to die first?” I ask.

Dr. Emeterio shakes her head. “It’s actually critical that you’re alive. We will need you in a vegetative state.”

“So I’ll be in a coma?”

“Essentially. But one of our biggest obstacles is going to be getting the right people to sign off on this procedure with such a short window. I’m afraid we don’t know any more about Death-Cast than the general public, and as doctors, it’s in our ethics to support you first.”

“To act like I’m not dying,” I say.

“Correct. It’s like I said before: it’s very possible Death-Cast can be wrong. But we’re not going to know until . . .”

“Until after I’ve died.”

“Or survived,” Orion says.

“Either-or,” Dr. Emeterio says.

“So if I survive, then that means Death-Cast can’t be trusted. Though if I die it means they’re right but it’s too late to do anything about it? Is this a dead end? What are we even trying to figure out here?”

“I can discuss this with the board and explore a window of time in which we may be able to safely perform the transplant with your consent, understanding that we won’t be able to save you should you go under and that you’re making this decision because of Death-Cast. It’s possible that if enough predictions are right between now and the afternoon, then we may be able to proceed. But I’m afraid I can’t make any guarantees because this is all too new.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, overwhelmed. I’m tired, but my End Day adrenaline is keeping me up. More than anything I want to be home right now, even on my twin-size air mattress that I’m sure is going to be uncomfortable. But not as uncomfortable as being put to sleep and knowing I’ll never wake up.

There’s an anatomical heart model on the examination bed. I’m drawn to it, like a model to a camera. It’s heavier than I expected, and it’s as big as my fist. I’d be surprised if this is actually accurate to scale. But what do I know? I can barely keep up with Dr. Emeterio’s conflicts, and I’m not exactly being given the time to become an expert on the subject.

I’m going to cut to the chase.