The Last Leaves Falling

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For Malcolm, and for Mark—I wish you were both here to see this

Acknowledgments

They say that if you fold a thousand paper cranes, a
real
crane will grant you a wish. I lucked out; before I’d folded a single sheet, the people below pulled together to make my book-shaped wish come true. And in lieu of a sky full of origami cranes, I offer these rather inadequate words:

First, Lucy Christopher, who opened doorways, and somehow always makes me want to write more, better words. And the rest of the Bath Spa WYP team, who, between them, demystified this business without taking away the magic; Julia Green, Steve Voake, Janine Amos, John McLay—thank you.

The best critique army anyone could wish for: Tracy Hager, Carly Bennett, Lesley Taylor, Marieke Nijkamp, Kayla Whaley, and KK Hendin. Thank you. For everything. When I say
everything
, I mean it. Thank you for not holding back, and for thoughtful discussions; for posing difficult questions and
expecting me to answer
. This book is a thousand times better because of you. And thank you for letting me flail and cry and worry all over you, but never once accepting that I might give up.

Thanks also to my fabulous readers, whose insightful feedback and encouragement have been utterly invaluable; Bridget Shepherd, Yuri Masuya, Dahlia Adler, Katerina Ray, Rosy Mercer and Mel Sylvester, Yuko Shimizu, and especially Niamh Taylor, Scarlett Sylvester, Mari Madigan and Mark O’Brien, the first young people to see these words; you rock my world.

Thank you, Rich Oxenham, for that first spark of an idea at the start. And Kayla Whaley, for an excellent round of Spaghetti Fridge which gave me a title; they are not my strong point, and I’m so grateful that they’re one of yours.

Superagent Gill McLay, for advice and enthusiasm in equal measure: I’m insanely lucky to have you.

Becky Stradwick and Kirsten Armstrong, my UK editors, and David Gale—massive thank-yous to the three of you for making this book so much better than it was, and for making the whole process painless. Thank you also to Liz Kossnar for fielding all my questions, Gary Sunshine for his attention to detail, and the rest of the BFYR team: all of your names should be here.
Thank you
, for everything you do to make books happen.

Finally, thank you to all the family and friends who’ve indulged my crazy research questions, read, put up with me flaking on coffee/dinner plans, and dragged me outdoors every once in a while. Special thanks to the friends who hold the keys to Twitter—without you, this book would never have been finished. And to my mum and dad, for all of the support, always. I love you guys.

1

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AGE

GENDER

INTERESTS

I stare at the cursor blinking expectantly at the top of the page.

Who do I want to be?

There are so many choices; honest, funny, brave. A superhero with a tragic past and bright, mysterious future; with superstrength or telekenetic powers.

I could be anyone and they would never know.

People say that is the problem with the Internet; pedophiles, murderers, con men, the Internet makes it all too easy to hide. But I like it.

I type “SamuraiMan” into the first box, then my fingers come to rest against the keys again. I know I’m overthinking this, but it has to be right. Put all these boxes together and you’ll have a picture; a picture of
me
.

Outside the computer, nobody sees Abe Sora anymore, they only see the boy who looks weird, the boy who cannot walk, the boy who needs assistance.

The boy who’s going to die.

•  •  •  •

At first, they thought that the aching in my legs was the flu and nothing more, but the weakness grew, and one day, out on the baseball field, I fell. My legs stopped working. The tests seemed to go on forever. Nobody knew what was wrong with me. They probed and prodded and asked a million questions. Every theory proved wrong, every disease and condition crossed off the list, until finally they found an answer.

I knew as soon as we opened the door. The doctor gestured to the empty seats, his face so serious, and I
knew
. They say that a warrior must always be mindful of death, but I never imagined that it would find me like that, in a white room with strip lights buzzing overhead.

“The good news is we
have
a diagnosis,” he said quietly, “amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.”

My mother shifted her chair a little closer, curled her fingers around my balled fist, then said slowly, deliberately, “What is that?”

“That’s the bad news,” he sighed. He was staring somewhere between us, as though he could not bear to look at us. I remember thinking,
Is what I have so terrible that he cannot even stand to say it? Will looking at me make him sick too?

I imagined germs flowing from my fingertips, infecting everything I touched. I tried to pull away from Mama’s grasp, but her fingers were tight with fear.

I glanced across at her, watched her eyes desperately searching the doctor’s face for clues. She looked tired. I noticed it for the first time that day. She has been tired ever since.

“It’s rare,” the doctor continued, “that’s why a diagnosis took so long; it is not something you would expect to find in someone your son’s age.”

My mother did not wait for him to continue, and when she spoke her voice was hurried, desperate. “But what
is
it?”

The doctor stared over my right shoulder as he recited symptoms, using big words that meant nothing to me then—“atrophy” and “fasciculations,” then “neurodegeneration” in what should, I’m sure, have been a reassuring tone.

His words rushed at me full force and then receded, like the flow of waves. “Gradual deterioration . . . limited movement. No cure . . . average prognosis of two years, but in some cases it is more, or less . . . I am sorry.”

No cure. And since then, even to my mother, I have been the boy who’s going to die; but here, here I can be anything.

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