"In here," he said, pushing on the skin above my heart, "you're ten below zero. And you're closer to death than I am." My name is Parker. My body is marked with scars from an attack I don't remember. I don't want to remember. I choose to live my life by observation, not through experience. While people are laughing and kissing and connecting, I'm in the corner. Watching them live. I'm indifferent to everything, everyone. The only emotion I feel with any kind of depth is annoyance, and I feel it often. A text message sent to the wrong number proves to be my undoing. His name is Everett, but I call him rude. He's pushy, he's arrogant, he crowds my personal space, and worst of all: he makes me feel. He chooses to wear all black, all the time, as if he's waiting to attend a funeral. Probably because he is. Everett is dying. And he's spending his final days living, truly living. In doing so, he's forcing me to feel, to heal. To come face to face with the demons I suppressed in my memory. He hurts me, he fulfills me, he completes me. And still, he's dying.