New York Alano
New York Alano
5:35 p.m. (Eastern Daylight Time)
Even with sixteen years of memories without my best friends, I don’t like remembering life without Ariana Donahue and Rio
Morales. They’re lifers, for sure.
It’s been hard making friends these past ten years without wondering if someone wanted to get to know me for me or for the
company’s secrets. I’ve spoken about this a lot with President Page’s son, Andrew Jr., who has grown up in the White House’s
shadow for the past twelve years thanks to his father being sworn into office as President Reynolds’s vice president before
being voted into office himself. Our talks across various ceremonies and rallies made me feel less alone, but he was a few
years older and lived in DC.
Then I met Ariana on Sunday, December 25, 2016, when she accompanied her mother, Andrea Donahue, who came in to Death-Cast to work both Christmas Eve and Christmas Night for the holiday premium pay. I was also there that night because the head herald, Henry Tumpowsky, was depressed from both the holiday season and the job itself so he quit hours before his shift. My father abandoned our plans to take over the duties, and my mother and I helped out where we could. I eventually wandered into the cafeteria, where Ariana was sitting alone since she wasn’t allowed in the call center.
“You’re Mrs. Donahue’s daughter, right?” I had asked, recognizing her from the holiday party.
“Ms. Donahue,” Ariana corrected. “My dad’s not in the picture.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. It’s his loss,” she said with a shrug. “I’m awesome.”
Even back then I admired how confident she was. I wasn’t surprised to discover that she was attending LaGuardia to train for
Broadway. She graduated last month and will be starting at her dream college, Juilliard, in the fall.
Right now, since I’m forbidden from existing in the outside world, Ariana and I are at my penthouse, sunbathing on the rooftop
garden as my German shepherd, Bucky, sits at the foot of my chaise.
“Babe, I’m destined to win a Tony, but even I can’t act like I think you calling Deckers tonight is a good idea,” Ariana says
after letting me vent about my father’s assignment. “Working that shift is going to be unforgettable. Like, bad unforgettable,
Alano. I don’t even think my mom can train you how to detach.”
It’s no secret that Andrea Donahue has a reputation for being emotionally detached at work, openly admitting that her one rule for surviving the job this past decade has been her refusal to see Deckers as people. My family doesn’t endorse that mentality, but Andrea shamelessly sees it as a necessary compartmentalization skill to prevent turnover, something she told my mother when applying to become the new head herald. Grief won’t overwhelm her as it did the previous head.
But Ariana is right: there is no training that will make me heartless to Deckers. Their grief does threaten to overwhelm me.
I pet Bucky between his big brown ears, as I always do when stressed, but looking at him doesn’t take my mind off death this
time.
On Leap Day, I found out my dog was dying.
Before that, my parents were busy coordinating efforts with the CDC to help prevent the spread of the coronavirus, but on
Thursday, February 20, I’d noticed that Bucky was sick too, so that became my number one priority. After nine and a half years
I’d grown used to Bucky getting sick and needing to sleep it off for a couple days, but this was different. He didn’t come
running at the jingling sound of his leash. He wasn’t eating his food or mine and even refused broccoli and strawberries,
his favorite snacks. After two days of this I scheduled an emergency vet appointment. Dr. Tracy drew Bucky’s blood, performed
a sonogram, and extracted fluids. One week later, Dr. Tracy called and diagnosed Bucky with hemangiosarcoma, a highly invasive
cancer that’s most prominent in large dog breeds, including German shepherds. Like Bucky.
That call was the closest thing to a Death-Cast alert an animal can receive.
Bucky was given five to seven months to live.
That was five months ago.
Unlike Death-Cast alerts, there is still hope for survival. I was willing to do anything to extend Bucky’s life, even if it
was only for another month or week. A day, even. Bucky underwent surgery on Saturday, March 14, right before lockdown. We
were fortunate enough to be sheltering in place here, where Bucky could enjoy fresh air in the garden while recovering. Once
the lockdown was lifted, we returned to the hospital for chemotherapy. He’s now cancer-free.
Still, no one truly knows how much more time I have with Bucky, so I’m making the most of it. I spoil him with new toys even
though he always gravitates back to the giant carrot squeaky toy I bought at Target. I’m still feeding him the healthiest
food while sprinkling in more treats. And wherever I go, he goes. I’m never leaving the city or country without him again.
There’s all the exercise too, of course, and while the walks have been taking longer this year, I don’t mind. I block out
that time for Bucky so that when he does die, I’ll trust that I gave him his best life.
If only my father showed me the same care I show my dog.
“Hey,” Rio says, entering through the balcony’s double doors. “Can you get Dane to ease up on pat-downs? I’m starting to feel
like he should take me out to dinner.”
My parents only started allowing me to have guests over after the lockdown, wanting to make sure that my friends and I would have a safe space to hang out in the event we had to shelter in place again. But no matter how close we are to someone, they must be inspected every time to make sure no one is planting bugs in here ever again. This will change when my friends and I get our own place.
“Why are you so late?” Ariana asks, braiding her long brown hair.
“He was playing A Dark Vanishing ,” I say.
Rio’s eyes widen. “How’d you know that? Did you bug my place? Maybe I should be patting you down too.”
The thought of Rio patting me down makes me warm in the face but also weird in the head because over the past three years
of being friends we’ve regularly been mistaken by strangers as brothers, cousins, even fraternal twins. I used to think it
was just people being racist, since we’re both tall, light-skinned Latinos with dark hair, but honestly, I see the resemblance
too. I’m both honored by the comparison because Rio is very handsome, but I’m also disgusted that people think we’re related
because we don’t have a history of behaving like brothers.
“I didn’t bug your place.” I point at Rio’s shirt that says I PAUSED MY GAME TO BE HERE .
Rio laughs. “Three reasons why you’re wrong. Number one: I was actually playing the sequel, A Dark Vanishing: New Dawn . Number two: saying that I was playing the game is really reductive when I was protecting the realm from a resurrected demon
queen. On hard mode, by the way. Number three: I didn’t put on this shirt to make a statement. I’ve been wearing it since
yesterday.”
“Ill.” Ariana points at the chaise closer to me. “Sit there.”
“I only came for the dog anyway,” Rio says, patting his thighs. “Come here, Buckboy.”
I’d rather Rio use any of the other nicknames I’ve given Bucky over the years—Buck, Buck-Buck, Buckaroo, Million-Dollar Buck,
Buckingham—but I’m moving on at this point. Bucky usually ignores him anyway, and I’m honestly just relieved Rio is no longer
calling him Buck-Fuck.
“Good boy, don’t listen to Tío Rio,” I say, scratching Bucky’s head.
When I got Bucky’s diagnosis, Rio was pissed that Ariana’s demonic cat Lucyfur—actually just named Lucy—would outlive Bucky
even though she’s twice as old and half as sweet. Ariana took offense, even though she knows no one will miss leaving her
house with fresh scratches. Ariana and Rio kept me company during Bucky’s surgery, distracting me with their hot takes, like
how Ariana believes the Scorpius Hawthorne movies are better than the books, and Rio thinks that TV shows should stop using
Death-Cast as plot devices, and they both squeezed my hands when the doctor exited the operating room to let me know Bucky’s
fate.
I can always count on them.
Except when it comes to Rio being on time or responding to things in a timely fashion.
“Did you get my text?” I ask.
“I got it,” Rio says. We stare at him. It’s not until Ariana laughs that he notices we’re waiting on him to say more. “What?”
“Any thoughts?”
“You said you don’t want to do it, so don’t do it.”
“My father thinks it’s good for the company.”
“Then do it.”
“But I don’t want to.”
“Then don’t.”
Rio is very opinionated but usually holds back from speaking his mind. I think it’s because he grew up a middle child who
didn’t like causing any trouble. But I’ve been encouraging him to be honest now so nothing gets left unsaid, like when his
older brother, Lucio, died. He leans in with his palms pressed together, a sign he’s about to share his unfiltered thoughts.
“It’s absolutely insane that heralds still exist in the first place. That would be like the town criers from medieval England
still walking around today telling people the news. Death-Cast should collectively send Deckers an automated message at midnight
instead of calling them individually. It would not only save the company a lot of money, it’s better for the Deckers who get
screwed over for valuable time when they’re called so late into the night.”
“Logically, all that makes sense,” Ariana says. “Selfishly, that would put my mom out of a job, which would suck for me because
then she can’t pay for Juilliard, so I’m Team Heralds, even if that means Alano having to take one for the team tonight. Sorry,
babe.”
This isn’t the first time Death-Cast has been criticized for the decision to not have automated messages.
“No one should find out they’re dying from a computer,” I say.
Over the years, my father has been approached by numerous AI companies who wanted to program automatic alerts, and he always
tells the founders to get their heartless asses out of his building.
“Are you at least getting time and a half for working so much in one day?” Rio asks.
“He’s inheriting a Fortune 500 company,” Ariana says.
“Then all the more reason to fire the heralds and pocket the change.”
Ariana flips off Rio, and he blows her a kiss.
I love them, even if I sometimes feel like the middle child between them. They rarely hang out without me; meanwhile I have
my own relationships with them. Ariana and I go to plays and musicals, visit museums, sign up for random classes at the 92nd
Street Y, and go thrifting every chance we get. Rio and I mostly go for long walks and talk about everything and nothing while
trying not to kiss. We’re usually successful, but we’re humans who crave connection, and our past makes that easy.
Rio snatches my sunglasses off my face and puts them on. “I forgot mine at home.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“It’s your fault that we have to be locked away up here, Rapunzel.”
“I didn’t threaten my own life.”
Ariana shudders. “The death threats are so creepy. Any leads?”
“No. Security usually traces the calls back to dummy phones. Probably a pro-naturalist.”
“Death Guarder,” Rio corrects.
“Death Guarder,” I echo.
It’s a necessary correction. The Pro-Natural Order is a movement largely made up by those who prefer living life without knowing
their fates. This can be dictated by their age, faith, or simply personal preference. Pro-naturalists generally don’t harbor
ill will toward pro-casters. The Death Guard, on the other hand, are extremists who want Death-Cast to collapse. They spread
conspiracies about Death-Cast presenting itself as a public service company and accusing us of playing God and deciding who
dies. They stage and record fake Death-Cast calls, and the videos later go viral when the Decker never died; this trend is
known as “crying Death-Cast.” They even troll real Deckers who are posting about their End Days on social media, which makes
them abandon sharing their stories, diminishing the circulation of genuine narratives that encourage people to sign up for
our service. Now the Death Guarders are going so far as to kill Deckers and threaten my life.
“Whoever wants to kill you is just a hater,” Ariana says.
“A dangerous hater,” Rio says. “You should fire Dane.”
“Why are you trying to fire everyone?” Ariana asks.
“Especially someone good at his job,” I say. “Look at me: I’m alive.”
Rio keeps staring out in the city. “If Shield-Cast won’t investigate who’s out to kill you, then I will.”
“Is Detective Rio making a comeback?” Ariana asks.
Rio used to dream about becoming a detective, back when he was waiting for the professionals to solve the mystery of the Last Friend serial killer. “If that’s what it takes to keep Alano alive. Alano, give me the call log and tell me everything you remember. Did the original caller have an accent? Any background noise? Was he trying to extort you?”
I hold out my hands, gesturing for Rio to breathe. “I appreciate you, but I’m okay. Shield-Cast is taking this seriously.
I promise.”
Rio nods. “Okay,” he says, resigned. I wouldn’t be surprised if the next time I go to his house, I find a bulletin board with
strings connecting photographs of suspects with other clues.
“On a brighter note,” Ariana singsongs while braiding her hair. “I thrifted the shiniest suit for the gala.”
I should be up-front about this morning’s update. “About the gala...”
“You better not be uninviting us,” Ariana says. “It was a thrift, but not my thriftiest thrift!”
Rio shrugs. “I can return my RainBrand suit.”
I settle Ariana down. “You’re both still going. At least, I hope you are,” I say, shifting to Rio. “My father has decided
to honor Dalma Young with our inaugural Life-Changer Award at the gala.”
I wish Rio wasn’t wearing my sunglasses so I could see his reaction, but it’s already clear that he’s never going to celebrate
Dalma Young’s creation. Not when Last Friend is the reason his brother is dead.
On Sunday, June 19, 2016, Lucio Morales received his Death-Cast alert at 2:51 a.m. He shared a bedroom with Rio and their younger brother, Antonio, so they all jumped out of bed to the blaring alert, not knowing who Death-Cast was calling. Rio and Lucio both thought the other was playing some cruel prank. No one was laughing when Lucio signed on to Death-Cast and verified his fate. The Moraleses hosted a funeral in the middle of the night, and once everyone finished their eulogies and began mapping out the best routes to Lucio’s favorite places to give him the best End Day possible, Rio found Lucio sneaking out to be with a Last Friend instead of his family.
“Lucio didn’t want his death to scar us,” Rio had explained.
But it was impossible not to be scarred by Lucio’s death when his corpse was discovered, bruised and bloated and branded and
dismembered. All because of a murderer who posed as a friend—as a Last Friend.
Rio removes the sunglasses, his near black eyes staring at me. “How can you honor Dalma Young when her app got another person
killed today?” he asks.
“That was the Death Guard threatening Death-Cast.”
“A life was still lost,” Rio says.
Defending the Last Friend app to a victim’s brother is never going to go well.
“That was an absolute tragedy,” I say about today’s killing. I should have checked in on him sooner. “I understand if attending
the gala is too uncomfortable for you.”
“No, I’m not going to let Dalma get in my way again. I just won’t clap for her.”
“That’s fair,” Ariana says.
“I also wouldn’t be mad if Dalma Young appeared on your call list,” Rio tells me.
“That’s dark,” Ariana says.
“I’m kidding,” he says.
I know he’s not.
There are a lot of opinions Rio has that I don’t agree with, including how during the angrier stage of his grief, he would
regularly voice that Dalma Young is as guilty as the Last Friend serial killer, H. H. Bankson, or how he believed the death
penalty should be used on all murderers.
“Serving life sentences means they’re still living,” Rio had said. “If someone takes a life, they should lose theirs. An eye
for an eye, a life for a life.”
That’s not justice. That’s revenge, and revenge is what Rio wants against his brother’s killer, who is alive in prison instead
of six feet under. I’m not surprised he wants Dalma Young dead too.
“The Last Friend app should definitely shut down,” Rio says.
I keep quiet.
Rio and I got close after his brother’s death, but if he ever found out I convinced Dalma Young to keep Last Friend alive,
it would kill our friendship forever.