[ WP ] Scientists discover an algorithm for predicting a person 's date of death with 95 % confidence . When you finally decide to enter your parameters into the algorithm you see a surprising result .

A lot of times, you'll hear someone who had a near death experience say that they're `` living on borrowed time.'' Man, they have no idea. 
 
 Everyone thought it was a joke, at first. Answer a few questions and find out how long you have left? No way was that possible. Oh, sure, plenty of people signed up for it, but it mostly just for shits and giggles, like going to a psychic or playing with a Ouija board. Some people took it seriously, but they were the weirdos, the headcases, the kind of people who already believed in all kinds of stupid crap. 
 
 It took a little while for all the information to come together, but after about six months, it came to light that a lot of people were dying *exactly* when their deaths had been predicted. After two years, the facts became too obvious to ignore: the death date machines were right. Always. 
 
 Well, almost always. 
 
 I'd managed to avoid the things for a while. I have a bad habit of overthinking, so even when we'd had the luxury of denial, it was the kind of thing that would have weighed heavily on my mind, and I did n't want that. 
 
 So I stayed the hell away, especially after we learned that the whole thing was real. I had no intention of learning my death date. Fate, though, had other plans. 
 
 It became common practice in hospitals to determine patient's death date, especially in life and death cases. This allowed hospitals to free up resources, focusing on the patients who had at least a few years left. If you got hit by a car and your death date was a week from now, why bother with a bunch of expensive surgery? They'd make you comfortable and let nature take its course. 
 
 Kind of scary, if you think about it. 
 
 I was outside cleaning the gutters one day when a breeze from hell came out of nowhere and my ladder fell over. I hit the patio pavement, and my head went fuzzy for a few seconds. There was a lot of blood, but I felt fine a few minutes later. My wife, anxious little worrywart that she was, insisted on driving me to the emergency room, just in case. 
 
 I agreed, mostly to appease her, but also because head injuries are serious business, and it really had been a lot of blood. I knew the hospital would take my death date, but the law forbade them from releasing that information to the patient unless they specifically asked for it, except in extreme cases. 
 
 My case ended up being extreme. 
 
 I knew I was in for it when the nurse walked in, holding one of those black sheets of paper. My wife, sitting in one of those uncomfortable green chairs they have in patient's rooms, let out a gasp. 
 
 `` I do n't want it,'' I told her, shaking my head. 
 
 `` It's in the past,'' she said quietly. 
 
 `` What?'' 
 
 `` Your death date. It's in the past.'' 
 
 I did n't have a choice at that point. Without consciously deciding to do so, I reached out and accepted the sheet of paper. 
 
 First, I made sure that it was really mine. It was. My name was printed at the top, along with my date of birth, my social security number, and all those other metrics that the government uses to sort its citizens. 
 
 Printed in large type at the bottom of the page was, `` December 21, 2012.'' 
 
 `` What does this mean?'' I asked. 
 
 `` I do n't know,'' the nurse said. `` I, uh, I'll go get the doctor.'' 
 
 My wife and I sat in silence, her hand in mine, for the next hour. Finally, a bald man in a white coat came in, looking disheveled. 
 
 `` We ran your death date six times,'' he said. `` Same date, every time. I called up the Center for Disease Control, they keep track of the death date program. You are the first recorded person to have lived past your death date.'' 
 
 My stomach churned, and I fought down the urge to throw up. 
 
 `` So what does it mean?'' I asked, not really expecting a coherent answer. 
 
 My expectations were met. 
 
 `` We have no idea,'' he told me. `` The good news is that you do n't have a concussion. You're free to leave. The CDC might want to contact you. You should know, though, that word of this will not get out, not from the hospital. Patient confidentiality.'' 
 
 `` Thanks, doc,'' I said. 
 
 With that, my wife and I left. We did n't make it very far though. 
 
 I was too rattled to drive, so I asked her to do it. To this day, I still have n't forgiven myself for that. 
 
 She was rattled by the experience, too. I should have seen that. 
 
 She did n't look both ways before pulling out of the hospital parking lot. She did n't see the eighteen-wheeler coming. 
 
 The truck slammed into her side of the car. The car went flying. We rolled, and another eighteen-wheeler hit us, this one coming the other way. Neither of us had a seatbelt on. We both ended up on the pavement. 
 
 I was conscious though the whole thing. I heard her cries of pain when the ordeal started, and I heard them get cut off when the car rolled on top of us. It kept rolling, thankfully saving us the trouble of being trapped, but the damage was done. 
 
 For the second time in the same day, I found myself covered in blood. Only this time, it was n't my own, not all of it. 
 
 There was a lot of commotion as the truck drivers stopped and came to try and help. The ER staff came and transported my wife and I back into the building. I could barely recognize her due to all the trauma. 
 
 I was hurt, there was no way I could n't be. I should have been dead, though. After everything I went through, after having a freaking *car* land on me, I should have been the same bloody pulp that my wife was. But I was n't. 
 
 That black piece of paper kept resurfacing in my mind. 
 
 The nurses and ER techs kept walking by my room, glancing in nervously, as though they were afraid of me. The nurse who was actually taken care of me spoke in short, quiet bursts, as though I were a vengeful god, one easily angered. 
 
 It was n't a surprise when they came and told me that my wife was dead. No need to punch in her numbers, no need to get a black piece of paper with her name on it. She was already gone. 
 
 They let me out of the hospital the next day. I got a ride home with a friend, but insisted on being alone when he tried to stay and look after me. I lied and told him I would be fine. 
 
 Once he was gone, I went to the garage. I closed the garage door, got a hose, and stuck one end on the exhaust pipe. The other end I put through the window of my wife's car, the little Toyota she'd loved. 
 
 I sat in the car, turned it on, and relaxed. It was n't long before I lost consciousness. 
 
 Then something unexpected happened. 
 
 I woke up.
