The First to Die at the End (Death-Cast #0)(2)

It’s like the end of the world is actually beginning.

In the past few days there’s been a record number of supermarket breakins as looters stock up on canned goods and gallons of water and toilet paper. There’ve been too many killing sprees because life sentences won’t last long if the world ends as quickly as the doomsayers are predicting. But nothing hits harder than hearing stories about those who’ve taken their own lives because we’re speeding toward a future with too many unknowns.

I was pissed after hearing about those deaths.

How could Death-Cast have access to this info and not prevent the murders, or intervene with the suicides? But apparently that’s never been in the cards. Death-Cast claims they can’t pinpoint someone’s cause of death, only their End Days to prepare them. And unfortunately, once someone’s name comes up in their mysterious system, their fate is written in stone—and later on their headstone.

Death-Cast may not be all-knowing, but they’ll do wonders for my anxiety. If I don’t get the End Day call, I’ll be good to live more boldly instead of second-guessing, triple-guessing, quadruple-guessing every damn thing I do out of fear of pissing off my heart and triggering cardiac arrest. I’ll also never be caught off guard again by loved ones dying. Like I was at nine years old when my parents went into the city for a meeting and were killed after a plane was flown into the World Trade Center’s south tower. My parents obviously didn’t have Death-Cast back then, but I’m forever haunted thinking about how there must’ve been a clear moment when they were certain they were going to die.

I swing at those heartbreaking thoughts, knocking them all back.

Death-Cast will make sure I’m never denied a goodbye ever again.

Well, the chance to say my goodbyes.

I know I don’t have all the time in the world, I feel it in my heart.

I got to go live my firsts—maybe even lasts—while I can.





Valentino Prince


10:22 p.m.

Death-Cast can’t call me because I’m not registered for their service. Not that they would anyway since my life is only getting started.

If anything, I feel like I’ve been reborn today.

Rebirths feel appropriate as someone born and raised in Phoenix, Arizona. Now it’s time to restart my life in none other than New York. From the Valley of the Sun to the Big Apple. I’ve been dreaming about this city for so long that after I printed out my boarding pass at the airport and saw PHX ? LGA, I broke down and cried. That one-way ticket meant I would never have to see my parents ever again. That I could build a new home with my twin sister.

I probably shouldn’t have booked the window seat on my flight over. I did my best to keep it together as the plane bulleted down the runway and shot into the sky. It turns out my best is awful. As all the buildings and roads and mountains kept shrinking from view, I cried in the clouds. My seatmate seemed judgy, admittedly. It made me wish even more that my sister was next to me as she should’ve been before a last-minute work opportunity came up. Thankfully, Scarlett will be on the first red-eye out to join me in our new apartment.

Five hours later, when New York came into focus, everything felt right, even though I’d never stepped foot among those skyscrapers and parks. Then we landed and I rolled my suitcases straight to the taxi line, where everyone else seemed miserable waiting, but I was so excited to finally ride inside these classic yellow taxicabs that I’d seen on TV and as props in magazine ads. The driver could tell I’d never been here before since I never stopped watching the street life. That first step onto the curb felt like a movie moment, as if cameras should’ve been flashing; there will be time for that later.

As of tonight, as of now, I can call myself a New Yorker.

Or maybe I have to wait until my landlord finally greets me with my apartment key so I can be certain that I wasn’t scammed after finding this studio on Craigslist. While I’m waiting, I’m taking in my little corner of the Upper East Side. There’s a tiny pizzeria right next door that’s trying to lure me inside with the smell of garlic knots. Honking cars pull my attention back to the street, where someone old enough to be my grandfather is screaming into his phone to be heard over the music blasting from the bar on the corner.

This city is loud, and I love it.

I wonder if I’ll ever miss the quiet of my old neighborhood.

The door opens behind me, and there’s a man wearing nothing but a white tank top and basketball shorts and slippers. He has a thick mustache and thinning black hair, and he’s glaring at me.

“You going to come inside?” he asks.

“Hi, I’m Valentino. I’m a new tenant.”

The man points at my suitcases. “I can tell.”

“I’m waiting for the landlord.”

He nods but doesn’t leave. As if he’s waiting for me to come in.

“Are you Frankie?”

He nods again.

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

He reluctantly shakes my hand. “Are you moving in or what?”

I was warned that not every New Yorker will be nice to me, but maybe Frankie is tired since it’s pretty late. I grab my suitcases and enter the building. It’s a warm night, but once I’m inside, I understand why Frankie is dressed like he’s grabbing the morning paper in Arizona. It’s so hot in here it’s as if I walked straight into the pizza oven from next door. The hallway is narrow, painted this mustard yellow that is not fun on the eyes, but I respect the choice. There are steel mailboxes built into the wall with packages on the floor waiting to be picked up, and a trash bin overflowing with junk mail including Death-Cast flyers. I take it many people in this building aren’t registered for the End Day calls. I’m personally not either, because my parents are total skeptics, but that paranoia is another inheritance of theirs I need to abandon.