On average, Jake lives to be 78. Heart disease will get him if cancer doesn’t, and that’s assuming he doesn’t try carrying a pizza one-handed on a motorcycle again. On the other side most of his quanta coalesce, though outlier death-selves loiter translucently. The younger ones all have stupid hair.
Eventually the Jake plurality runs across a very faint apparition, from a solitary worldline. Only he lived to be a hundred and one.
“Did you keep up the lifework?” they ask him. “Did you finish? Was it worth it?”
“What work?” says Jake, pointing to his neck. “I pulled a Carradine.”