The truth was, Rory didn’t want to die. Yeah, he was depressed—suicidal, even, on most days—but he didn’t want to go out like the others had. Not like Evan, not like Tim or Nora. Their deaths had been messy. Violent. Full of panic and blood. Rory didn’t want that. He wanted control, not chaos. Quiet, not screaming.

Now, crammed in the backseat of the car on the way to the hospital, his nerves were fraying. He couldn't sit still, kept fidgeting with his sleeves, tapping his knee, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Every so often, he popped a pill from the bottle in his pocket, dry-swallowed like it was candy, though it didn’t seem to help.

"I mean, someone in this car is about to get whacked, right? Do the rest of us really feel like sittin' next to him? Or her?"

There was a beat of silence before he turned, eyes sharp as he jabbed a finger toward Kat behind the wheel. His voice dropped to a stage whisper, dry and deadpan.

“Hopefully her.”