New York Alano
New York Alano
12:16 p.m. (Eastern Daylight Time)
When I was nine I wanted to be a herald, but I’ve long outgrown that childhood dream and I’m now dreading making my first
Death-Cast calls tonight.
I believe heralds have the most important job in the world. Before the age of Death-Cast, doctors were the closest profession
society had to heralds since they could gauge how long a sick patient had to live. Hours, days, weeks, months, sometimes years.
They weren’t always right. Heralds always are when alerting Deckers. The older I got, the more I realized how sad that was.
A patient told by their doctor they’re dying could still hold on to hope that they might survive, but Deckers don’t have that
privilege. Their fate is ironclad.
I couldn’t spend years telling people they would die without being haunted. I’m not even sure that I’m ready to do it for
three hours, but my father thinks I am because of how I conducted myself with Dalma Young.
“You were sympathetic but swift, the true talents necessary for a herald,” he had said.
I may not want to be a herald in the long run, but my father believes it’s necessary for my succession to be able to relate to the increasing weight of grief that heralds carry night after night. I didn’t bother arguing that he must be as light as a balloon, since he only ever made one call, ten years ago, because I know what he would say: “I have enough ghosts.”
So do I. Tonight I’ll gain some more.
For now, I’m distracting myself with other Death-Cast business. I’m in my father’s office with my parents and our chief of
staff, Aster Gomez, who was first hired as a customer success engineer during the company’s inception because of her people
skills—people skills that could’ve been utilized for herald work, but she didn’t want to do that either. Now thirty-five years
old, she oversees all department heads, a role my father anticipates I will one day take over once Aster receives another
promotion.
Aster has spent the past forty-five minutes leading us through updates and requests for the Decade Gala: Scarlett Prince’s
final counter for more money before she will agree to have her studio photograph the event; reviewing the guest list, which
now includes Dalma Young’s half sister, Dahlia Young, and Dahlia’s fiancée, Deirdre Clayton; the rush order placed for Dalma’s
award engraving; the final menu from the chefs at our local World Travel Arena and their head count for catering staff; the
hiring of undercover security; goody bags that include all-inclusive getaways to the Rosa Paradise, our resort in Culebra,
Puerto Rico; the silent auction for a week on our yacht, The Sunshine Decker ; the recasting of a new actor for our Project Meucci commercial since the first refused to sign the NDA; approving promotional trailers from our sponsors, the scripts and routes for the tour guides, and the headshots and instrumentals for our in memoriam ceremony; and making all final decisions for the run-of-show.
“Would you like the Life-Changer Award presented before or after the Project Meucci reveal?” Aster asks.
Pa considers this. “When do you think would be the best time, Alano?”
I’m confused why he’s asking when I remember there’s a surprise I’ve been coordinating for our three employees who have remained
at the company since the start: the head herald, Andrea Donahue; the onboarding director, Roah Wetherholt; and Aster Gomez.
“Do the award before,” I suggest. I budgeted five minutes per person for Ma to share some quick words and present their plaques,
paid sabbaticals, and a check worth enough to fulfill some bucket list dreams.
“Very well. It will be good to honor Dalma’s innovation before introducing the company’s next phase,” Pa says.
Aster notes the decision on her tablet before looking up again. “Moving on from the gala, I spoke with publicity, and the
campaign for the Lifetime Lottery begins tomorrow morning.”
We will be running a lottery on our anniversary where ten households will win lifetime subscriptions to the service, and we’ll also be announcing our intention to repeat this every year for the foreseeable future. It might not be free for all, but my father is always working on reducing pricing. Ten years ago Death-Cast cost $20 for a single day, $275 for a month, $1,650 for six months, and $3,000 for a whole year. As more and more people registered, the price kept dropping; supply and demand. This earned my father a lot of goodwill because most founders would’ve kept hiking their charges for a company that’s not only successful but one of a kind like Death-Cast. Today, subscriptions cost $12 a day, $90 for a month, $500 for six months, and $900 for the year. Hopefully by the time I’m running the company it will be even more accessible if not completely free.
My phone buzzes. I have Do Not Disturb turned on while at work where no one can reach me except company contacts; this is
mainly so my best friends don’t distract me with memes. Our publicity director, Cynthia Levite, has messaged me and Aster
with a media hit from NBC. How would Mr. Rosa like to respond? she wrote.
The article is about a twenty-one-year-old Death Guarder who was arrested after posing as a Last Friend to kill a nineteen-year-old
Decker. The Decker was stabbed three times as the Death Guarder issued a warning—or threat: “Your time is almost up, Death-Cast!”
Here we are planning for the company’s future, and someone is threatening it.
“Excuse me,” I say, interrupting Aster as she shares the preorder sales for my father’s memoir. “There’s been another Death
Guard attack. A Decker was murdered.” I share the article’s highlights: the who, the what, the where, the when—and the threat.
“Our time is almost up?” Pa asks, his fist sitting tight on the table.
“How would you like to respond?” Aster asks, her stylus pen at the ready.
My father closes his eyes, composing himself. “Release a statement on our newsfeed. Say that we continue to oppose the violent
attacks from the Death Guard and we will be investigating the assailant’s threat.” He opens his eyes, his gaze drifting as
if he’s distracted by someone behind me, but there’s no one there. “Extend the company’s condolences for the Decker. He was
robbed of a long End Day and even longer life.”
Aster notes everything. “Would you like to review the copy before it goes live?”
“No,” Pa says. He trusts her.
“I’ll submit this after our meeting—”
“Submit it now.”
“Yes, sir.” Aster leaves the office.
Ma sighs. “Dead at nineteen. That young man’s life was just getting started...”
“As was his End Day,” Pa says. “I hope he made the most of it.”
“I’m going to check in on Dalma and have security look into the assailant’s background,” Ma says, leaving too.
Did I make a mistake convincing Dalma Young to keep Last Friend alive?
Pa stares at the brass globe where his bar cart used to be.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask, wanting to take his mind off drinking. “Maybe a punching bag with Carson Dunst’s face? I
could have one here within the hour.”
“I would much prefer punching Carson Dunst’s actual face for egging on those cultists, but thank you for the offer.” My father comes around his desk and rests a hand on my shoulder. “Have Agent Madden escort you home and get some rest, mi hijo. You will need to be alert for your shift tonight. Deaths depend on it.”
The pressure is mounting. I need some fun to take my mind off this task ahead. I turn off Do Not Disturb mode. The group chat
with my best friends is alive and well as they’re both sending listings for the apartment we’re secretly wanting to get together.
“I’m going to go hang out with Ariana and Rio.”
“Where?”
“Maybe grab a bite at Cannon Café.” That’s Rio’s favorite diner, a block from his house, where the waitstaff don’t mind that
we stay there for hours talking and playing cards; probably something to do with the big tips I leave. But I realize this
is not the answer my father was looking for, especially today.
“A boy your age was just murdered, and your own life was threatened this morning.”
“But I’m not dying today,” I say. We know that because of his creation.
“That does not mean you can tease Death.”
There’s a fire growing inside me, but I snuff it out, just as my father has been known to do when I try lighting my own matches.
It’s a shame that I’m being primed to oversee a company that encourages everyone to live their best lives without being able
to do so myself.
I envy the Deckers who live more on their End Days than I get to with my entire life.