Page 22 of Here One Moment

“Guys like us always get friend-zoned,” Harvey once said. “It’s because we’re beta males. No one wants the betas. They SAY they want the betas, but they’re lying, they want the alphas.”

That “beta male” comment is probably why Ethan decided to try rock climbing.

Thanks a lot, Harvey.

“I feel like this old lady heading down the aisle is having some kind of episode,” says the woman in the window seat. “Ooh! Here comes the flight attendant to sort her out. Oh. My. God. That kid just threw up all over the flight attendant!”

“Gross,” says the woman in the middle seat without lifting her head.

Ethan leans into the aisle. A lady is walking down it pointing at people.

“She’s predicting deaths,” says a sharp voice. “I heard her say ‘Cause of death, age of death,’ so that’s not weird at all.”

The woman in the window seat nudges her friend. “You hear that? She must be a psychic from that festival!”

Both women simultaneously lift up their phones and press record.

“If I could afford it, I’d go to a psychic, like, once a week,” says the window-seat woman.

“Me too,” says her friend. “I find it really calming.” She turns to Ethan. “You into psychics? Bet you’re not. Men are so…” She puts on a deep manlike voice. “I need evidence! I need facts!”

Ethan doesn’t say anything, as his opinion is clearly unnecessary. Also: she’s right. He is not into psychics, and yes, he does need evidence, he does need facts.

The lady points at the elderly couple diagonally across from Ethan. He hears her say, “I expect old age, age one hundred. I expect old age, age one hundred and one.”

The elderly couple nod politely, seemingly unperturbed. Why would they be? Those predictions seem fairly benign and obvious. Isn’t that the dream? To make one hundred and die of old age?

Now the lady is in the aisle next to Ethan. She is small. She seems harmless. In a hurry. A little irritable. She reminds Ethan of his grandmother when she learns she is required to download an app.

She points first at the woman in the window seat. “I expect melanoma, age seventy-nine.”

“Gotta give up those sunbeds, babe,” chuckles her friend, still filming. “Ooh—my turn!”

The lady points at Ethan’s seatmate. “I expect liver disease, age eighty-seven.”

“Gotta give up the espresso martinis, babe,” says her friend.

It’s Ethan’s turn. He smiles automatically up at her, as he would at any older woman stopping to talk to him.

She says, “I expect assault.”

“Assault?!” His smile vanishes. “You mean I’m going to die in a fight?”

“Assault,” repeats the woman. “As I said. Age thirty.”

Thirty? Ethan feels it in his stomach. A shadowy version of the feeling he experienced when he first heard the news about Harvey. “I don’t really get into—”

“Fate won’t be fought!” She steps forward.

His seatmate elbows him. “So, how old are you?”

“Twenty-nine,” answers Ethan vaguely without looking at her.

“Well, that sucks for you,” she says with such nonchalant sympathy that Ethan grins, but that’s when it happens, because he thinks, like an actual idiot, Wait till I tell Harvey about this. Harvey loves this kind of left-field stuff. Harvey will do his quite good Morgan Freeman impersonation: “Ethan Chang was twenty-nine years old when he learned the manner of his death.”

But he can’t tell Harvey. There is no telecommunications platform on which to reach Harvey. It’s like Ethan has only now realized he’s dead, even though he’s just been to his funeral, even though he’s been thinking about literally nothing else but Harvey’s death the whole day.

He hears a strange sound like a panting dog. It’s him.

---