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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.”