“Scientists have been able to predict death dates using artificial intelligence since the early 2020s. In the past few decades, the techniques have been refined. Now we all know the exact date of our death. Now, the question is, how do you want to live your life until your expiration date arrives. I encourage you to ponder this question, because time will soon be running out. Thank you for your attention.”
The class applauded as Sam crumpled his report and walked back to his seat. He tossed the paper in his backpack. “Why are you clapping? Some of us are set to expire soon.” Sam said. “Sheila, why are you still here? You’re almost expired.”
“My parents said they would pay me extra for doing my own death cleaning if I got a good grade in social studies,” Sheila said, glancing meaningfully at Miss Robson, who sat at her desk in the front corner of the classroom.
Miss Robson stood up. “Let’s get through these news article reports, and then we’ll worry about grades. Come on, we soldier on until the end, that is the rule. Who is next?”
“Me,” said Maya, raising her hand. “I’m not expiring until 2080! I have plenty of time to do stuff.”
“2080? You’ll only be forty or so when you die,” Sam scoffed. “You should live to be at least eighty. We all should. That’s how it used to be. Some people died younger, but most people lived a long time. Now hardly anyone lives beyond sixty. At least, not anyone in our neighborhood.”
“Eighty!” Maya laughed. “What would I do with myself for all those years! Listen, my article is about the Great Pandas that used to live in the region formerly known as The People’s Republic of China, now called the Hegemony of Earth Overlords.”
Maya stopped talking when Sam stood up. “Haven’t you guys ever wondered why the rich people live twice as long as poor people? The expiration system is rigged in their favor.”
Miss Robson launched herself out of her chair, waving her arms. “None of that talk, Sam, nobody heard you say that. We have laws for a reason. Now, sit down. If everyone lived to be eighty, there’d be no room left on the planet, did you ever think about that?”
“All the time,” Sam muttered as Maya continued with her report.
After class, several students accosted Sam on the way to the bike rack. One of them was Maya. “Everyone knows your ex-date, Sam,” she said. “You’re just a sore loser. We’re going to beat the crap out of you now.”
They punched him in the face a few times and went away. Sam stanched the blood and rode his bike home, knowing what he would find. Sure enough, his mother’s things were packed in cardboard boxes, ready for repurposing. His father sat on the couch, looking lost. Sam sat on the couch next to him and held his hand.