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“Did you know a boy named Max Hendrickson？”
Good question. Did I？ Hendrickson？ From where？ Sunnyvale， you say. The name sure sounds familiar. Maybe Kaylee Hendrickson？ Oh， that was his sister？ Well， then there you go. Wait， what do you mean “was”？
What？ Hit by the Caltrain[加州火车]？ How old was he？ I don’t understand. How？ When？ You mean last Saturday， like three days ago？ How did you find out？
And I’m running into the basement， pulling out boxes and loose papers[活页纸]， rifling[快速搜寻] through certificates[证书] of academic achievements[学术成就] and old Scantron注1 tests to find the 2011 yearbook. If he was a year younger than I am， then the year we moved from Sunnyvale， Max would have been…
Yes， sixth grade， third page in， wedged[擠进] in between Hammond and Herrera. A little boy looking out at me from a page full of faces. When this picture was taken， he had just four years left. Did he know？ I search the brown curls lazily looping[（使）成环] over his forehead， the mischievous[恶作剧的] spark in his brown eyes， the peaceful smile resting calmly on his face. He doesn’t look like someone who knew. He looks like a sixth grader， like a kid. He looks like a little brother and a son. He looks like a friend. So this was Max Hendrickson.
Google scrolls[滚动] out a long list of results， the first headline catching my eye. “Teen fatally[致命地] struck by Caltrain in Sunnyvale identified[鉴定].” It’s about Max， but it’s not. There’s no way Max was just this， just another teen struck by Caltrain， just a mystery boy until someone got him identified. He must have been so much more.
So I go to his Instagram， and I watch the pictures flip through， of him and his girlfriend. His status reads，“Isabelle is my forever.” I guess she really was…I click on a shot of him with his bike， flipping off[朝……竖中指] the camera. My mouse jerks[猛拉] to the right， and now I’m staring at a gorgeous[美丽动人的] photo of him and the girl who must be Isabelle， kissing in front of a San Francisco landmark. On the right， friends leave their condolences[吊唁].
I click on the first guy’s name， wondering if I will recognize any of Max’s friends. The desperation[绝望] builds， to know this boy， to connect the name to more than a face. He’s gone now. Did I ever have the chance to meet him？ I’m looking for a memory. I don’t know the friend’s name， but I catch sight of the picture above his status post. It’s Max. Just like the one over the next guy’s status. And the next. I search through the pictures， the comments[评论]， the friends. Everyone is remembering Max Hendrickson. They’re all talking， endless words peppered[使布满] with “I miss you” and “I didn’t want to believe.” Every comment another mark of “RIP注2”. There’s a hashtag[标签] already， and they’re asking each other to call， to text， “if you need anything.” It’s almost an open invitation， extended[发出（邀请、欢迎等）] to everyone…except me.
Because I’m sitting here racking my brains， flipping through every memory of the sixth grade class， wondering if I ever saw him. Did I bump into him in the halls， sit next to him at lunch， sing happy birthday to him when the whole cafeteria erupted in“Happy birthday， dear Max” because no one except a few close friends actually knew who had started singing and for whom？
Maybe. But probably not. So I’m sitting here， heart breaking， tears spilling out， and I’m coming to terms with[屈服，接受] the fact that in all probability[很可能]…I didn’t know Max Hendrickson. Not Max the little brother， not Max the boyfriend， not Max the friend， not even Max the “BMX注3 rider，” as he called himself. So why do I feel like I’ve been hit just as hard？
I scroll further down， and my eyes rest on a quote he reposted[轉发] a few months ago， scanning the words over and over. “Don’t count the days，” Max said. “Make the days count.” And I want to know： did you， Max？
I don’t know.
But I want to. I will. Because Max is gone， but as I go through the pictures a second time， I look at how many people are still here. Isabelle， his friends， the classmates， the family. And me. And maybe I’m not the only one who heard and said， “Who was he？” Doesn’t he deserve to be remembered？
Yes.
So I’m going to remember you， Max. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t know me. I don’t care. I’m going to remember you. When I’m walking down the hall at school， C paper in my hand， wondering why I bother. When my little sister runs out the front door and screams my name because I just got back from school， and my heart just totally overflows[溢出]. When I’m with my own little brother， and my own best friend， and one day， maybe with my own son. I never want to forget how short it is. I never want to miss another moment， to lose out on[输掉，失去] one more second to spend in this beautiful life.
So RIP. And I miss you. And ditto[同上地] to everything else your friends have posted. But more than that. Thank you. I’m not letting any more time pass me by. One day， when all is said and done注4， I hope to have the privilege[特权] of meeting you for real， in a better place. I’d like to thank you then for reminding me now to live. “你认识一个叫马克斯·亨德里克森的男生吗？”
问得好。我认识他吗？亨德里克森？哪里人？（美国加州）森尼维尔市，你说。这个名字听起来确实很熟悉。或许是凯莉·亨德里克森？哦，那曾是他的姐姐？好吧，那就是这样了。等等，“曾是”是什么意思？
什么？被火车撞了？他多大了？我不明白。怎么发生的？什么时候？你是说上周六，也就是三天前？你是如何得知这个消息的？
我跑到地下室，拿出箱子和活页纸，翻查着学业成就证书和陈旧的答题卡测试卷，寻找2011年年鉴。假设他比我小一岁，那么我们搬离森尼维尔市的那一年，马克斯应该就在……
没错，六年级，在第三页，挤在哈蒙德和赫雷拉中间，一个小男孩从铺满头像的页面中看着我。照这张照片的时候，他只剩下四年的生命。那时他知道这件事吗？我仔细探究他：棕色卷发懒洋洋地环绕着前额，褐色的眼睛闪烁着恶作剧的光芒，平和的笑容从容不迫地停驻在他的脸上。他看起来不像当时就知道这事。他看起来像是一个六年级生，像一个孩子。他看起来像是一个弟弟和一个儿子，像是一个朋友。那么这就是马克斯·亨德里克森。
谷歌滚动出一份长长的搜索清单，第一则头条新闻抓住了我的眼睛——“森尼维尔市被火车撞死的青少年，其身份得到确认。”这是关于马克斯的新闻，但这不是马克斯。马克斯不可能只是这样，只是又一个被火车撞死的少年，只是身份未被确认之前的一个神秘男孩。他一定有更多闪光点。
于是我到他的Instagram，浏览他和他女朋友的照片。他的状态是这样写的，“伊莎贝拉是我永远的爱。”我想她确实是……我点击了一张照片，照片里他骑着自行车，对着镜头竖中指。我把鼠标猛地向右拉，然后盯着一张动人的照片看，他和一个女孩（肯定是伊莎贝拉），在旧金山市的一个地标建筑前亲吻。在这张照片的右边，他的朋友们留下了他们的吊唁。
我点击第一个（留言的）家伙的名字，想知道我是否认识马克斯的任何一个朋友。我不顾一切地想了解这个男生，让那个人名不止是与一张脸挂钩。现在他已经走了。我是否曾有过与他见面的机会？我在寻找一份记忆。我不知道那个朋友的名字，但我看到他的状态上面的那张照片。那是马克斯。就像下一个家伙的状态上方的那张照片一样。然后是下一个。
我搜遍了他的照片、评论和好友。大家都记得马克斯·亨德里克森。他们都在谈论他，数不清的“我好想你”和“我不想相信”遍布朋友圈。每一个评论后面都跟着一句“请安息”。已经有这样一个话题标签了，他们要大家互相打电话、发信息，“如果你需要帮助的话”。这几乎是一个公开邀请，发给每个人的邀请——除了我。
因为此时我正坐在这里绞尽脑汁，翻阅六年级时的所有记忆，想知道我是否见过他。我是否曾在过道里偶然碰见过他，吃午餐时坐在他旁边？或者是当只有几个亲密好友真的知道他生日并且開始为他唱生日歌的时候，整个自助餐厅的人一起大喊“亲爱的马克斯，生日快乐”，而我也为他唱起了生日歌？
也许吧，但很可能没有。所以我坐在这里，心碎不已，泪如泉涌，我不得不接受这样一个事实：很大可能是……我并不认识马克斯·亨德里克森。马克斯不是我的弟弟，不是我的男朋友，也不是我的朋友，甚至不认识自称“自行车越野赛骑行者”的马克斯。那我为什么会有被重重一击的感觉？
鼠标继续向下滚动，我的眼睛停留在他几个月前转发的一句引言——“不要数着日子过，”马克斯说，“要让每一天都充满意义”。我一遍又一遍地看着这句话。然后我想知道：马克斯，你做到了吗？
我不知道。
但我想这样过。我会做到的。虽然马克斯已经走了，但当我第二次仔细查看这些图片时，我看到有许多人仍然在这里。伊莎贝拉，他的朋友们，同学们，家人，还有我。也许我不是唯一一个听到消息会问“他是谁？”的人。难道他不值得被记住吗？
是的，他值得。
所以我会记住你的，马克斯。你不认识我也没关系。我会记住你。当我手里拿着一张C 的测试卷走过学校的过道，想知道为何我会为此烦恼的时候;当我刚从学校回来，妹妹从前门跑出来，尖声喊我的名字，让我的心里爱意满溢的时候;当我和我的弟弟、我的好友，还有将来有一天，也许是我的儿子在一起的时候。我永远不想忘记这段时光是多么短暂。我永远不想错过每一个瞬间，错过这美好人生的每一秒钟。
所以安息吧！我会想念你，并且重复你的朋友为你所做的所有事，但又不仅仅是这样。谢谢你。我不会再让时间从我的指缝中溜走。有一天，当一切都结束的时候，我希望能有幸和你真的见面，在一个更美好的地方。到那时，我想谢谢你提醒我活在当下。
注1：Scantron是一个测试评分系统，我们考试时用铅笔涂黑的答题卡就是用这个系统测试评分的。
注2：RIP=rest in peace，表示“安息”。
注3：BMX=Bicycle Motocross，指“自行车越野赛”。
注4：When all is said and done字面上的意思就是“该说的都说了，该做的都做了”，引申为“归根结底，说到底”。
Good question. Did I？ Hendrickson？ From where？ Sunnyvale， you say. The name sure sounds familiar. Maybe Kaylee Hendrickson？ Oh， that was his sister？ Well， then there you go. Wait， what do you mean “was”？
What？ Hit by the Caltrain[加州火车]？ How old was he？ I don’t understand. How？ When？ You mean last Saturday， like three days ago？ How did you find out？
And I’m running into the basement， pulling out boxes and loose papers[活页纸]， rifling[快速搜寻] through certificates[证书] of academic achievements[学术成就] and old Scantron注1 tests to find the 2011 yearbook. If he was a year younger than I am， then the year we moved from Sunnyvale， Max would have been…
Yes， sixth grade， third page in， wedged[擠进] in between Hammond and Herrera. A little boy looking out at me from a page full of faces. When this picture was taken， he had just four years left. Did he know？ I search the brown curls lazily looping[（使）成环] over his forehead， the mischievous[恶作剧的] spark in his brown eyes， the peaceful smile resting calmly on his face. He doesn’t look like someone who knew. He looks like a sixth grader， like a kid. He looks like a little brother and a son. He looks like a friend. So this was Max Hendrickson.
Google scrolls[滚动] out a long list of results， the first headline catching my eye. “Teen fatally[致命地] struck by Caltrain in Sunnyvale identified[鉴定].” It’s about Max， but it’s not. There’s no way Max was just this， just another teen struck by Caltrain， just a mystery boy until someone got him identified. He must have been so much more.
So I go to his Instagram， and I watch the pictures flip through， of him and his girlfriend. His status reads，“Isabelle is my forever.” I guess she really was…I click on a shot of him with his bike， flipping off[朝……竖中指] the camera. My mouse jerks[猛拉] to the right， and now I’m staring at a gorgeous[美丽动人的] photo of him and the girl who must be Isabelle， kissing in front of a San Francisco landmark. On the right， friends leave their condolences[吊唁].
I click on the first guy’s name， wondering if I will recognize any of Max’s friends. The desperation[绝望] builds， to know this boy， to connect the name to more than a face. He’s gone now. Did I ever have the chance to meet him？ I’m looking for a memory. I don’t know the friend’s name， but I catch sight of the picture above his status post. It’s Max. Just like the one over the next guy’s status. And the next. I search through the pictures， the comments[评论]， the friends. Everyone is remembering Max Hendrickson. They’re all talking， endless words peppered[使布满] with “I miss you” and “I didn’t want to believe.” Every comment another mark of “RIP注2”. There’s a hashtag[标签] already， and they’re asking each other to call， to text， “if you need anything.” It’s almost an open invitation， extended[发出（邀请、欢迎等）] to everyone…except me.
Because I’m sitting here racking my brains， flipping through every memory of the sixth grade class， wondering if I ever saw him. Did I bump into him in the halls， sit next to him at lunch， sing happy birthday to him when the whole cafeteria erupted in“Happy birthday， dear Max” because no one except a few close friends actually knew who had started singing and for whom？
Maybe. But probably not. So I’m sitting here， heart breaking， tears spilling out， and I’m coming to terms with[屈服，接受] the fact that in all probability[很可能]…I didn’t know Max Hendrickson. Not Max the little brother， not Max the boyfriend， not Max the friend， not even Max the “BMX注3 rider，” as he called himself. So why do I feel like I’ve been hit just as hard？
I scroll further down， and my eyes rest on a quote he reposted[轉发] a few months ago， scanning the words over and over. “Don’t count the days，” Max said. “Make the days count.” And I want to know： did you， Max？
I don’t know.
But I want to. I will. Because Max is gone， but as I go through the pictures a second time， I look at how many people are still here. Isabelle， his friends， the classmates， the family. And me. And maybe I’m not the only one who heard and said， “Who was he？” Doesn’t he deserve to be remembered？
Yes.
So I’m going to remember you， Max. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t know me. I don’t care. I’m going to remember you. When I’m walking down the hall at school， C paper in my hand， wondering why I bother. When my little sister runs out the front door and screams my name because I just got back from school， and my heart just totally overflows[溢出]. When I’m with my own little brother， and my own best friend， and one day， maybe with my own son. I never want to forget how short it is. I never want to miss another moment， to lose out on[输掉，失去] one more second to spend in this beautiful life.
So RIP. And I miss you. And ditto[同上地] to everything else your friends have posted. But more than that. Thank you. I’m not letting any more time pass me by. One day， when all is said and done注4， I hope to have the privilege[特权] of meeting you for real， in a better place. I’d like to thank you then for reminding me now to live. “你认识一个叫马克斯·亨德里克森的男生吗？”
问得好。我认识他吗？亨德里克森？哪里人？（美国加州）森尼维尔市，你说。这个名字听起来确实很熟悉。或许是凯莉·亨德里克森？哦，那曾是他的姐姐？好吧，那就是这样了。等等，“曾是”是什么意思？
什么？被火车撞了？他多大了？我不明白。怎么发生的？什么时候？你是说上周六，也就是三天前？你是如何得知这个消息的？
我跑到地下室，拿出箱子和活页纸，翻查着学业成就证书和陈旧的答题卡测试卷，寻找2011年年鉴。假设他比我小一岁，那么我们搬离森尼维尔市的那一年，马克斯应该就在……
没错，六年级，在第三页，挤在哈蒙德和赫雷拉中间，一个小男孩从铺满头像的页面中看着我。照这张照片的时候，他只剩下四年的生命。那时他知道这件事吗？我仔细探究他：棕色卷发懒洋洋地环绕着前额，褐色的眼睛闪烁着恶作剧的光芒，平和的笑容从容不迫地停驻在他的脸上。他看起来不像当时就知道这事。他看起来像是一个六年级生，像一个孩子。他看起来像是一个弟弟和一个儿子，像是一个朋友。那么这就是马克斯·亨德里克森。
谷歌滚动出一份长长的搜索清单，第一则头条新闻抓住了我的眼睛——“森尼维尔市被火车撞死的青少年，其身份得到确认。”这是关于马克斯的新闻，但这不是马克斯。马克斯不可能只是这样，只是又一个被火车撞死的少年，只是身份未被确认之前的一个神秘男孩。他一定有更多闪光点。
于是我到他的Instagram，浏览他和他女朋友的照片。他的状态是这样写的，“伊莎贝拉是我永远的爱。”我想她确实是……我点击了一张照片，照片里他骑着自行车，对着镜头竖中指。我把鼠标猛地向右拉，然后盯着一张动人的照片看，他和一个女孩（肯定是伊莎贝拉），在旧金山市的一个地标建筑前亲吻。在这张照片的右边，他的朋友们留下了他们的吊唁。
我点击第一个（留言的）家伙的名字，想知道我是否认识马克斯的任何一个朋友。我不顾一切地想了解这个男生，让那个人名不止是与一张脸挂钩。现在他已经走了。我是否曾有过与他见面的机会？我在寻找一份记忆。我不知道那个朋友的名字，但我看到他的状态上面的那张照片。那是马克斯。就像下一个家伙的状态上方的那张照片一样。然后是下一个。
我搜遍了他的照片、评论和好友。大家都记得马克斯·亨德里克森。他们都在谈论他，数不清的“我好想你”和“我不想相信”遍布朋友圈。每一个评论后面都跟着一句“请安息”。已经有这样一个话题标签了，他们要大家互相打电话、发信息，“如果你需要帮助的话”。这几乎是一个公开邀请，发给每个人的邀请——除了我。
因为此时我正坐在这里绞尽脑汁，翻阅六年级时的所有记忆，想知道我是否见过他。我是否曾在过道里偶然碰见过他，吃午餐时坐在他旁边？或者是当只有几个亲密好友真的知道他生日并且開始为他唱生日歌的时候，整个自助餐厅的人一起大喊“亲爱的马克斯，生日快乐”，而我也为他唱起了生日歌？
也许吧，但很可能没有。所以我坐在这里，心碎不已，泪如泉涌，我不得不接受这样一个事实：很大可能是……我并不认识马克斯·亨德里克森。马克斯不是我的弟弟，不是我的男朋友，也不是我的朋友，甚至不认识自称“自行车越野赛骑行者”的马克斯。那我为什么会有被重重一击的感觉？
鼠标继续向下滚动，我的眼睛停留在他几个月前转发的一句引言——“不要数着日子过，”马克斯说，“要让每一天都充满意义”。我一遍又一遍地看着这句话。然后我想知道：马克斯，你做到了吗？
我不知道。
但我想这样过。我会做到的。虽然马克斯已经走了，但当我第二次仔细查看这些图片时，我看到有许多人仍然在这里。伊莎贝拉，他的朋友们，同学们，家人，还有我。也许我不是唯一一个听到消息会问“他是谁？”的人。难道他不值得被记住吗？
是的，他值得。
所以我会记住你的，马克斯。你不认识我也没关系。我会记住你。当我手里拿着一张C 的测试卷走过学校的过道，想知道为何我会为此烦恼的时候;当我刚从学校回来，妹妹从前门跑出来，尖声喊我的名字，让我的心里爱意满溢的时候;当我和我的弟弟、我的好友，还有将来有一天，也许是我的儿子在一起的时候。我永远不想忘记这段时光是多么短暂。我永远不想错过每一个瞬间，错过这美好人生的每一秒钟。
所以安息吧！我会想念你，并且重复你的朋友为你所做的所有事，但又不仅仅是这样。谢谢你。我不会再让时间从我的指缝中溜走。有一天，当一切都结束的时候，我希望能有幸和你真的见面，在一个更美好的地方。到那时，我想谢谢你提醒我活在当下。
注1：Scantron是一个测试评分系统，我们考试时用铅笔涂黑的答题卡就是用这个系统测试评分的。
注2：RIP=rest in peace，表示“安息”。
注3：BMX=Bicycle Motocross，指“自行车越野赛”。
注4：When all is said and done字面上的意思就是“该说的都说了，该做的都做了”，引申为“归根结底，说到底”。