The members of The Undertakers Club have just learned that Bettina,
So that’s what it is—death. You were here and now you’re not. You were a friend, and now you’re not. You were a living, breathing thing, with color in your cheeks, and light in your eyes, and now you’re not. (. . .) The only thing you are is a memory in someone else’s mind. That’s what you are. The rest is dead and gone. All that remains of Bettina is what we saw of her, and what we heard. She teased me—a lot. She’s teasing me now when I think of her. She walks the way she used to walk down the halls, but now she’s only in our minds. She doesn’t go to school now, except the one we see when we think of her. If that’s what we leave behind, and who we are when we are gone, then there is a reason to live. A reason to get up in the morning, a reason to go to school, a reason to say “hi” even to somebody who might snub you. They’ll remember you—and be stuck with it.