I Can See How Everyone Will Die

I have the ability to see how people will die. The day my divorce is finalized, I'm hit by an electric scooter and sent flying. When I wake up, I see a line of text above the nurse's head. It reads, "27 years old. Breast cancer in eight years." I pick up my phone. The first name in my contacts is my ex-wife, Caroline Meyer. After a moment's hesitation, I open her social media. Her latest post shows her and her new boyfriend vacationing in Marencia, captioned, "Forever starts with you." The location tag says it was posted three hours ago. We only finalized our divorce the day before. Later, I get a voice message from my daughter. "Daddy, Mommy says I can't go to her new house anymore. Her boyfriend doesn't like kids." I clutch my phone and head out to pick her up, only to run into Caroline's father, John Meyer, outside the apartment building. Above his head, the words read, "62 years old. Carbon monoxide poisoning in three months." The moment John sees me, he starts yelling. "What a loser! My daughter should've divorced you years ago! Her new boyfriend is young, handsome, and owns three houses. What do you have?" I glance at the words above his head, then slowly delete the warning text message I'd already typed out. After that, I take my daughter's hand and say, "Come on. I'm taking you out for burgers." Chapter 1 At the diner, my daughter, Hailey Coleman, kept placing fries on my plate. "Eat up, Daddy. You've gotten so skinny." She was only six, but she already knew how to read the room. I had just picked up my fork when my phone buzzed again. It was a text from my ex-wife, Caroline Meyer. "Figure out Hailey's school fees yourself. I have a car payment to worry about." Funny how she could afford flights to Marencia, though. I didn't reply and turned my phone face down on the table. Right then, Hailey asked quietly, "Daddy… does Mommy not want us anymore?" "Mommy doesn't want to be with me anymore. But she'll always be your mom." The words sounded hollow even to me. After all, what kind of mother wouldn't even pay for her own daughter's education? Halfway through the meal, my phone rang. This time, it was Caroline's father, John Meyer. The instant I answered, he started tearing into me. "Listen carefully, Gavin Coleman! My daughter did you a favor by letting you walk away with nothing. The house is in my name, so don't think you're getting a single dime! "Also, don't bring Hailey back here again! The Meyer family doesn't need a granddaughter. Caroline will be giving me a healthy grandson soon enough." He went on for three minutes, but I never said a word. All I could think about was the line of text above his head—"62 years old. Carbon monoxide poisoning in three months." "Cat got your tongue?" John barked. "Yeah. Guess it did." With that, I hung up. By then, Hailey had already finished all her food. Her little hands were covered in grease as she wiped her mouth with a napkin. "Daddy, did Grandpa yell at you again?" "No. Grandpa said he misses you." Hailey tilted her head and thought for a beat. "But Grandpa said I was a burden last time he saw me." Unfortunately, six-year-olds remembered everything. … After I paid the bill, I took Hailey's hand and walked her home. As we reached the package lockers at the apartment entrance, my phone buzzed with a notification from a delivery app. My application to become a driver had been approved. So, starting tomorrow, I'd be a delivery driver. Being a security guard didn't pay enough, and the factory shifts gave me no flexibility. I wouldn't be able to pick Hailey up after school. Food delivery was the only option that gave me flexible hours. Besides, the more I worked, the more I could earn. When we got back to the apartment, Hailey fell asleep almost immediately. I sat beside the bed and opened my photo gallery. Our wedding photos were still there. Caroline had worn a borrowed wedding dress that day, her smile bright. Back then, she'd said, "Gavin, someday things will get better." Seven years of marriage… Just when the hard times were finally behind us, she walked away. Without hesitation, I deleted every photo of Caroline from my phone. Then, I opened the delivery app and checked tomorrow's weather forecast. A light rain was expected. Rainy days meant more orders. It was time to get to work. Chapter 2 On my first day as a delivery driver, I saw every kind of person this city had to offer. That morning, I left home at 7:00 am and dropped Hailey off at kindergarten. At the entrance, she grabbed onto the hem of my jacket and refused to let go. "Daddy, can you pick me up this afternoon?" "Of course. I promise I'll come get you," I replied. Then I hopped on my scooter and headed downtown to start running deliveries. My first delivery was to an office worker in a high-rise who had ordered a black coffee. When I brought it to her, she didn't even look up. She simply took the coffee and closed the door. Above her head was a line of text that read, "29 years old. Liver cancer in 12 years." My second delivery was for an elderly woman at the hospital. She had ordered a bowl of oatmeal. When I reached the hospital room, a gray-haired lady came out and took the bag from me with trembling hands. Above her head was another line of text. "71 years old. Heart attack in five months." I bit my lip and kept quiet. There was nothing I could do. Besides, it wasn't my place to interfere. … By lunchtime, the delivery rush was in full swing. After running 12 orders back-to-back, my legs were aching. So I sat on the curb and ate some bread. Just then, a news alert popped up on my phone. "Prominent businesswoman Susanna Jenkins has died of organ failure at the age of 69." Susanna Jenkins… I knew that name all too well. Back in high school, her daughter, Kelly Rhodes, had been my classmate. One day, Kelly invited me over, and I met her grandmother. I'd told her that her grandmother had eight hours left to live. And sure enough, Mrs. Campbell held on for exactly eight hours. Afterward, Susanna gave me five million dollars. That money got me through university and made me believe my life was finally going to get better. But a year after graduation, I married Caroline. She was a woman who had fought her way out of a small rural town and had always been determined to climb the social ladder. The first time I met John, he'd asked, "How many houses do you own?" When I told him I didn't own any, the smile on his face faltered. Back then, Caroline said, "Dad, Gavin treats me well, and he's got savings. That's enough." Was it really enough, though? Over our seven-year marriage, I spent every penny of what remained on Caroline. It paid for her grad school, funded her startup, and bought the luxury car she used to keep up appearances. By the end of it, not a single dollar remained. Yet, in return, all I got was an Instagram post from Marencia with the caption, "Forever starts with you." … At 2:00 pm, my phone rang. It was Caroline. "Gavin, you still have Hailey's insurance card, right? Send it to me. I need to use it." "Hailey's insurance card? What do you need it for?" I asked. Caroline replied, "I'm pregnant. I need it for my prenatal appointments. I can't find my own insurance card, so I'll just use Hailey's for now and use whatever coverage is left on it." We'd been divorced for less than a week, and she was already pregnant. I didn't need to do the math to know when that had happened. "Caroline, you cheated on me while we were still married." Her voice remained calm as she said, "Don't make it sound so ugly. Louis and I didn't officially get together until you moved out." Louis Campbell was her young new boyfriend. I stayed on the line, waiting for Caroline to ask about Hailey. Even just asking how Hailey was doing would have been enough. But she never did. Instead, she went on, "Mail the insurance card today. Send it express. I'll pay for the shipping when it arrives." Having said that, Caroline hung up. I put my phone down. The rain had stopped. Sunlight broke through the clouds, falling across my soaked delivery jacket. I stood up, got back on my scooter, and continued running deliveries. Chapter 3 On my third day as a delivery driver, I got a strange order. The address was in an upscale neighborhood on the south side of town. The delivery instructions read, "Please ring the doorbell three times. Do not knock." So, I rang the bell three times. The door opened, and a woman in her 40s stepped out. She was wearing a silk robe with a strand of pearls around her neck. I happened to glance up as she took the order, and the words above her head made me freeze. "45 years old. Strangled to death by the spouse in two days." My hand jerked, and I nearly dropped the delivery bag. The woman looked at me, asking, "Is something wrong?" "No." I handed her the food and turned to leave. After just a couple of steps, I stopped. "Um…" I looked back. The woman was still standing in the doorway, checking the contents of the bag. "Is your husband good to you?" I asked. She looked up, her expression turning wary. "Why are you asking?" "No reason. Just… be careful." With that, I got on my scooter and rode away. … That night, I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned, unable to get the woman's face out of my head. She'd tried to cover a faint bruise on her cheek with foundation, but I'd been close enough to notice it. … The next day, I got another order for the same address. It was the same customer. This time, when the woman opened the door, a fresh cut ran from the edge of her eyebrow to her temple. The words above her head had changed. It read, "45 years old. Strangled to death by the spouse in one day." My grip tightened around the bag as I handed her the food. Then, I said, "Ma'am, you should call the police." "For what?" she asked softly. "Your husband hit you, didn't he?" The woman glanced at me before closing the door. I stayed where I was. A beat later, a man's voice came from inside. "Who was that?" "The delivery guy," the woman answered. "Stop ordering takeout. I'll cook for you," he said gently. I rode to the entrance of the apartment complex and sat there for ten minutes. Then, I pulled out my phone and called 911. "Hello, there's a domestic violence situation at 14 Fairview Gardens Apt 302, on the south side of town. The woman has visible head injuries." "Are you calling about yourself?" the dispatcher asked. "No. I'm the delivery driver. I saw her injuries." "Thank you. I've got officers on the way to check on that." I didn't know whether the police could change anything, but the line of text above the woman's head had said "one day". I had to do something. … Around noon the next day, I was scrolling through the news when I saw a local news alert. "Man Arrested on Domestic Violence Charges at Fairview Gardens, Woman Hospitalized." She hadn't died, so the words above her should've changed. Still, I couldn't be sure. I couldn't exactly see the tops of their heads in a news report, after all. But the woman was alive, and that was enough. That day, I completed eight extra deliveries. It was enough to cover Hailey's expenses for the week. … On my 15th day as a delivery driver, John cornered me outside the entrance to Caroline's apartment complex. He stood in front of my scooter with a birdcage in hand. "Gavin, have you got no shame?" he snapped. "Caroline said you've been asking three thousand dollars a month from her for child support." "The court ordered it." John shot back, "Forget the court! You're delivering food for a living. Does it really cost three thousand dollars a month to raise a kid? "Caroline's pregnant, and Louis' expenses are high. Can't you ask for less?" I looked at the words above his head. They were still the same. "62 years old. Carbon monoxide poisoning in two and a half months." The date was drawing nearer with every passing day. "Dad!" Caroline's voice came from behind John. She walked out of the apartment building with a tall, stylish young man. That was none other than Louis. It was my first time seeing him. He was dressed head to toe in designer streetwear, with limited-edition sneakers and perfectly styled hair. The words above Louis' head read, "26 years old. Car accident in four years." As soon as Caroline saw me, she stopped short. "What are you doing here?" Chapter 4 "I'm here to pick up Hailey's things. She still has some clothes at your place," I replied. Caroline frowned, then turned to Louis. "Wait for me in the car." He didn't move. Instead, he sized me up before letting out a scoff. "So this is your ex-husband? Man, he looks rough. No wonder you dumped him." Louis was five years younger than me and carried himself like a spoiled rich kid. I couldn't be bothered with him. Moments later, Caroline tossed a plastic bag at me. Inside were three of Hailey's old clothes and a stuffed bunny with one ear missing. It had always been Hailey's favorite toy, yet John had cut off one of its ears. He insisted little girls shouldn't play with soft toys like that and that they distracted kids from things that actually mattered. Hailey was only four at the time, and she'd spent the entire afternoon crying. I took the bag and turned to leave, but John spoke again. "Hold on. We need to talk about the child support." "The court ordered three thousand dollars. Just pay that amount," I said flatly. "Three thousand dollars? Are you kidding me?" John barked. "Caroline's pregnant, and Louis needs money for an investment—" "That's your problem." John slammed his palm against the back of my electric scooter. "Let me tell you something. Every penny Caroline earns belongs to this family. An outsider like you isn't entitled to any of it!" Without saying a word, I hung the plastic bag on the handlebars and started the scooter. John was still cursing at me, while Louis stood beside him, casually scrolling through his phone. And Caroline never said a word in my defense the entire time. As I rode out of the neighborhood, I passed a dumpster. An older man was crouching beside it, collecting recyclables. The words above his head read, "58 years old. Will die of old age in 23 years." A peaceful death from old age was the best ending I'd seen yet. Out of nowhere, I found myself envying a man who made his living digging through other people's trash. … That night, Hailey fell asleep clutching her one-eared stuffed bunny. I sat by the window and totaled up what I'd earned that month. I'd made 4,800 dollars from 15 days of deliveries. Rent was 1,500 dollars, Hailey's kindergarten fees were 1,200 dollars, and groceries came to about 1,000 dollars. Then, there were the scooter's charging costs and my phone bill. After paying for everything, I was left with 110 dollars. That was all the money Hailey and I had left. At that moment, my phone buzzed, and a text from Caroline popped up. "I'll be a few days late on this month's child support. Louis has his eyes on a watch, so I want to get that for him first." I slid my phone under my pillow without replying. I stared at the long crack running across the ceiling and made a decision. I wasn't going to let this ability go to waste. Years ago, Susanna had paid me five million dollars for a single reading. How many people in this city wanted to know how they were going to die? How many would pay to change their fate? I was done being a saint. I was going to use these eyes to provide for Hailey and me. … It took me three days to come up with a plan. After all, I couldn't just walk up to strangers and tell them how they were going to die like I had when I was younger. That would freak people out and land me in trouble. So, I created a social media account called "The Healthy Delivery Guy". The content was simple. Every day, I posted a story about someone I'd met on my deliveries. Of course, I changed all the identifying details. In the first video, I said, "I delivered food to a woman who had bruises on her face. Let's talk about what to do if you or someone you know is experiencing domestic abuse." With the recent Fairview Gardens news still fresh in everyone's mind, the video passed 50 thousand views. In the second video, I said, "Office workers who survive on coffee and skip breakfast every day should watch out for these warning signs." That one reached 80 thousand views. I never mentioned anything supernatural. I simply talked about the people I'd "noticed" and framed everything as everyday health advice. By the time my account reached 20 thousand followers, someone sent me a private message. It read, "Hey, can you tell if someone's sick? My mom's been complaining about headaches lately. Could you take a look?" But I didn't respond. It wasn't that I didn't want the money. I was waiting for a bigger catch. … Two weeks later, I picked up a 300-dollar delivery for an office tower downtown. It was the most expensive delivery I'd ever gotten. When I checked the order, I realized it was a snack delivery for an entire office floor. The receptionist told me to leave everything on a table. As I carried the boxes inside, I noticed the conference room door was open, and about a dozen people sat around the table. At the head of the table sat a sharply dressed man in his early 40s with the unmistakable presence of someone in charge. Above his head, the words read, "43 years old. Brain hemorrhage in one year." Beside him stood a little boy, about five, absorbed in a game on his tablet. And above the child's head were the words, "Five years old. Anaphylactic shock today." Today… I set the box down and glanced at the order note. "Severe nut allergy. No nuts in any food items." The receptionist had placed the snack order. I opened one of the cake boxes and checked the ingredient list. Almond flour was listed near the top. "Hey," I called out. "That cake—" By then, the receptionist had already picked up a box and was walking toward the conference room.