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“It could happen,” I said. “Just as likely as anything, I’d say.”

“What if I’m an old lady?”

“Then things are going to get really creepy for me.”

“Shut up.”

“Just promise to eat right and do lots of cardio. Don’t go facelift, though. I want to see the wrinkles. I think you’d look good with wrinkles.”

“Shit, Travis. This is too hard.”

“Look,” I said. “Kiss me. Then turn around and walk out.”

Being a tough guy didn’t work for me, and before
I could spit out the words, I was using my one remaining molecule of strength to sit up and grab her around the shoulders. We cried and she said things about it not being fair and she got angry so fast that it turned to sadness before I could react to it. So instead of calling me an asshole, it came out more like “Ass love you,” which made us both pause for a few seconds in each other’s arms.

“Yes, babe, ass love you too,” I said.

“I mean, I love you.”

“I know. And I love you, Cate Conroy. Can you do me a favor?”

“Yeah.”

“Keep my painting safe for me? Now that they’ve got the house to themselves, I don’t want my parents breaking it when they start partying it up every night.”

“Done,” she said. “You’re stupid.”

“Remember me this way,” I said. “And I promise, when I come back, that I’ll be just as stupid as ever.”

“Deal.”

A few minutes later she was gone. She didn’t turn around or anything—there was no dramatic movie moment where she ran back in and kissed me passionately and it started raining inside or anything. She hung her head low, and she beelined out and down the hallway. I was proud of her too. I couldn’t have done it that way. They would’ve had to pry me off her.

We’d stayed up pretty late the night before, my parents and me, because they wanted the good-bye to be short and
sweet. They didn’t want to upset me before my procedure, and they certainly didn’t want me to question their faith in all this Frankenstein madness. I knew, though. I knew they believed this would be it and it broke what was left of my heart when they walked in, together, and stood on either side of the bed after Cate had left.

“How you feeling?” Dad asked.

“Good. Ready, I think.”

“You’re not scared, then?” Mom was choking up.

“I’ve been scared a lot,” I said. “Through all of this, but not now, no. Not so much.”

“We’re so proud of you, Travis. You’re so brave,” Dad said with tears and a scratchy, broken voice.

“You guys have been better than you should’ve been,” I said. “Can you just
know
that? Can you just try not to forget how good you were at all of this?”

“We haven’t been good at anything,” Mom said.

“You took care of me,” I said. “Every second, my whole life.”

I hugged them each good-bye, and they each kissed a cheek and left their faces next to mine for longer than I expected, long enough to feel like, in some cosmic world, we were sharing thoughts that way. We were shooting invisible little lines of sentiment and love and anguish. Then they stood there, holding hands, and they watched as my eyes began to close, as the chemicals began to tell my brain to go to sleep, to take the longest nap in history. And they told me they’d see me soon.

See, I had all these people who had to watch me leave and pretend to hope that I could come back. It was all pretend—I was pretending and they were pretending because that’s what got us through it. We fake it sometimes, don’t we? We go along with impossible things because we have to survive when life starts getting too dark. And, well, usually we never have to deal with the too-good-to-be-true thing actually becoming true. But when it does, I can tell you that the pretending gets a lot harder. You can find ways to be okay with dying, but you can’t fake your way through living. You can’t be okay with not having anything you want when it’s staring you right in the face. And you can’t go to sleep at night knowing you have some poor kid’s body attached to you and feeling like you don’t have any damn good use for it.

We met up with Dr. Saranson at the local hospital on the Wednesday after I started school. He flew in from Denver that morning just to examine me and make sure everything was still attached properly, I guess. He actually made that joke during the appointment, and I’m not ashamed to say I laughed pretty hard. I’m a big fan of bad jokes, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.

“Travis,” he said. “You couldn’t be in better health. I’ll admit I was a little worried that Jeremy’s body would be weak after all he went through, but you seem to have been the right cure for that. Your head, anyway. How’s your appetite?”

“He can’t eat enough. We’re keeping Whole Foods in business,” Mom said.

“That’s good. Very good. And how’s school?”

“It’s okay. Weird but okay.”

“He’s already made a new friend,” Dad said.

“Hey there. That was quick. No surprise, though. Just be careful they’re not in it for your fame.” He chuckled to himself, staring down at his clipboard.

He eventually asked my parents to give us a few minutes, and we talked about Jeremy Pratt a little more. He said that, like me, Jeremy wasn’t too scared to die when the time finally came. To me, the saddest part about Jeremy’s story wasn’t how he died but how he found out he was sick in the first place. Apparently, he wanted to be a professional skateboarder. So he was skateboarding with his friends one day and he kept falling down, kept losing his balance on the simplest tricks, ones he’d been doing for years. Then it was the headaches, then mood changes, and eventually nausea and vomiting. They say there’s a very good chance of surviving a brain tumor if it can be removed. If it can’t, you’ll probably end up like Jeremy Pratt. Well, except you won’t be attached to me afterward.

Dr. Saranson had a flight to catch, so we parted ways with one of his long handshakes. He was so glad I’d talked to Lawrence, but he didn’t ask for too many details. I liked that about him, that he knew it wasn’t his place and that he probably wouldn’t be able to understand Lawrence and me anyway. He knew that no one—except his future patients, maybe—would ever understand us.

I started thinking about Jeremy a lot more after that day. It was hard not to, I guess. Just when I’d realize I
hadn’t thought about my situation for a while, something would happen and I’d suddenly look down at my knees or the tops of my now size twelve shoes and be thrown off course all over again. But still, it felt so right. It was so comfortable to just be moving and breathing and able to sit up and bend and jump and stand on one leg. Jeremy Pratt’s body was now doing all these things that my old body had stopped doing for me, things that everyone takes for granted until they aren’t there anymore. Hell, I was even impressed with my new ability to fart with such ease and so very little pain. You know things are weird when you start appreciating your farts.

“Do you skateboard?” Hatton asked at lunch after I’d told him Jeremy’s story. It was my fourth day back at school, a Thursday.

“Never was any good at it.”

“You should try it now.”

“You think so?”

“Hell yeah. Muscle memory. You’d probably be awesome.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works. But do you have a board?”

“No. But my little brother does.”

“You have a little brother?”

“Yeah. Skylar. Bane of my existence.”

After Hatton and I made a plan to test out my skateboarding skills that afternoon and sat through another excruciating chemistry slide show, I went to my favorite
class of the day, which was study hall. This was usually reserved for seniors only, but they made an exception for me since I started school in October and because, well, they were probably scared if they gave me a full class load, then I’d want to die all over again.

But on that fourth day back, just as I was closing up my geometry book and prepping for my afternoon nap, the school secretary’s voice blasted out over the intercom.

“Mrs. Huxley,” she said. “Please send Travis Coates to the counselor’s office.”

“Travis,” Mrs. Huxley said, never looking up from her computer. I wasn’t sure she was even a real person. I’d never seen her move from that spot.

I got my stuff together and walked out. There was always something sort of creepy about walking around the halls of Springside High when everyone else was in class. You’d see a few kids here and there, but mostly you’d notice the way the floor glowed with thick coats of wax and how, no matter what part of the building you were in, it smelled like someone was popping popcorn. I think teachers survive mostly on popcorn and Diet Coke.

I waited outside the counselor’s office and leafed through a few pamphlets tossed onto an old coffee table in front of me. I thought maybe if I kept looking, I might find one titled “So You’ve Just Come Out of Cryosleep to Find That Your Girlfriend Is Engaged and Your Best Friend Is Trapped in the Closet?” But, alas, I didn’t have any luck. I
did
learn how to talk to my parents about STDs,
though. So at least there’s that. I actually hadn’t seen Mrs. Taft, the counselor, since I’d been back. I hadn’t spent too much time around her, but I always thought she was nice.

“Travis, you ready?” a surprisingly young guy in slacks and a skinny tie said, standing right in the doorway of the office. This was not Mrs. Taft.

“Uhh. Yes, sir.”

I followed him into the tiny room and took a seat across from his desk. An engraved gold nameplate told me he was Philip Franklin, and I wondered if he had had a hard time growing up with two first names.

“Sorry to pull you out of class like that,” he said. “I’m Philip.” He extended his hand to shake mine.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

“Likewise. So how’s everything going?”

“It’s okay, I guess.”

“Yeah? Not too overwhelmed by your classes yet?”

“Study hall helps,” I said. “I should be fine.”

“Good, good. So I know I wasn’t here before. How do I say this . . . when
you
were here?”

“It’s okay,” I said, saving him. “I get what you mean.”

“Thanks,” he laughed. “Looks like you’re getting used to people not knowing what to say, huh?”

“A little bit.”

“So anyway. Principal Carson wanted me to check on you every now and then to make sure things are going okay. And to let you know that we’ll do whatever we can to make this easier for you, Travis.”

“Thanks.”

“The press . . . have they bothered you at home or anything?”

“No. There’s a cop patrolling the neighborhood for a while to make sure they leave us alone.”

“That’s good,” he said. He looked so nervous and twitchy, like he was talking to someone really famous or something.

“Yeah. I’m not ready to talk to the press just yet. Not sure I ever will be.”

“I don’t blame you one bit. It must be difficult for you—to be thrown into something so much bigger than, well, being a teenager in Kansas City.”

“Dad says they’ll lose interest eventually.”

“Probably. Something weirder will happen and they’ll leave you alone.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to say
weird
. Something else . . . I don’t know . . .
newsworthy
.”

“Mr. Franklin,” I said. “I’m thinking
weird
is probably the right word here.”

“And you’ve made some new friends this week?”

“A few.”

“Mrs. Lasetter says you hit it off with Hatton Sharpe. That’s good. Hatton’s a good kid.”

“He’s funny, yeah.”

“And you know Audrey Hagler, right? Her brother’s a friend of yours?”

“Yes, sir. Kyle. My best friend.”

“That’s great. This must be so strange for you. I’ve got to be honest here and say I’ve felt a little clueless. There isn’t really any research for cases like yours. I was a bit worried.”

“And now?” I asked. “Still worried?”

“Not really. You seem okay, I think. Do
you
think you’re okay?”

“Can I get back to you on that?”

He smiled and stood up, grabbing a set of keys out of his desk drawer.

“Before you go, Travis, I have something for you.”

“Okay.”

He unlocked and opened this tall, metal cabinet and brought out a brown cardboard box. He set it down in front of me, and I saw that it was full of sealed envelopes. Most were white, but some were yellow and green and even pink. A few had stickers on the front. They were all addressed to me.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“I think it’s fan mail,” he said. “We’ve been getting them since you came back.”

“Oh. Huh.”

“We haven’t opened any of them or anything. They’re all yours.”

I picked one up, a green one, and used my index finger to tear it open. There was a single sheet of notebook paper inside folded three times. I unfolded it, and since
Mr. Skinny Tie was just watching me the whole time, I started reading out loud.

Dear Travis,

My name is Claudia King, and I’ve been following your story on the news. I think what’s happened to you is the most inspiring thing I’ve ever heard. I lost my son when he was a little boy, and I’ve had a hard time dealing with his death. I’ve even questioned my faith. But when I heard about you, I started praying again. I hope you have a very happy, long life.

Sincerely,

Claudia King

“Wow,” Mr. Franklin said.

“I don’t want these.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t want these,” I said, dropping the letter back into the box. “You have to keep them. I don’t want them.”

“Travis, it’s really great that your story means so much to all these people.”

“Throw them away. Read them yourself. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Just keep them away from me.”

“Okay,” he said. “I don’t understand, but whatever you like.”

“Are we done, Mr. Franklin? I need to go back to class.”

“Sure, Travis. We’ll talk soon.”

I left his office as quickly as possible, and I didn’t notice the shiny floors this time or the smell of popcorn or any of the other creepy, silent shit going on in the school. I couldn’t think about anything except for that letter and all the other letters in that box. I felt like my head was spinning, like maybe the damn thing was about to twist right off my body, so I ducked into the first bathroom I came to and ran into one of the stalls. I leaned down over the toilet with my hands pushing against the walls on each side of me, and I don’t know if it was the letters or the fact that my face was so close to a public toilet, or both, but I puked Jeremy Pratt’s guts out.