The First to Die at the End (Death-Cast #0)(23)

He believed having a heart would be a strength for this position, but maybe ripping his own out of his chest would be better for everyone, himself included. If he doesn’t have a heart, then that means it can’t be broken.

One hour in and he’s coming undone.

How could he not?

Rolando’s first and longest call was to an elderly man, who awoke to his alert in confusion and fear, thinking this was all a dream. As the Decker, Clint Suarez, came to understand his reality, it broke Rolando. Clint was so lonely that he just wanted to tell his life story to anyone, even the very someone who was predicting his death. So Rolando listened and listened to Clint’s story of a dancing career both lived and unlived, and recommended he put on his favorite song and dance one final time before they hung up. How was a call with an eighty-seven-year-old so hard? Rolando’s expecting Clint will die of old age, but what if he has a heart attack while dancing? Is that Rolando’s fault? Is it Death-Cast’s? Is that how he was always destined to die?

He has no answers, and no time to try and find them.

After being scolded by his boss twenty minutes ago, Rolando is trying to move faster through his calls. But how do you not stay on the line with a nineteen-year-old girl whose whole life was ahead of her? Or feel compelled to call a man over and over when he’s not answering the phone, hoping the Decker didn’t die before Rolando could reach him?

Truth be told, the only call Rolando would be happy to make right now is to the woman who got away, Gloria Dario, though he prefers thinking of her by her maiden name, Medina. A funny story about her son, Paz, would remind him that life isn’t all about death. Unfortunately, his phone is in his locker so he can focus on the task at hand, and it’s too late to disturb her anyhow. Her husband, Frankie, would be upset if Rolando woke everyone up; that man’s temper is alarming, and Gloria would have to pay the price.

An even greater truth to be told is that Rolando wouldn’t mind seeing Frankie’s name appear on this computer, promising his death, but unfortunately Frankie’s not registered for the service. If he were, that would give Rolando more than enough reason to keep working at Death-Cast.

It would be the one End Day call that Rolando could make with a smile on his face.





Andrea Donahue


1:07 a.m.

Death-Cast did not call Andrea Donahue because she is not dying today, but the same can’t be said for the nineteen Deckers she’s called in the past hour.

Well, maybe the same can be said for them.

Who’s to say if Death-Cast is even real?

Not Andrea. She doesn’t need to know the company’s big secret (though if someone bribed her with an offer worth risking her solid salary and ironically amazing life insurance, she could be persuaded to do some digging. The private school she’s hoping to send her daughter to won’t be cheap). She minds her business—mostly. She can’t help but notice her fellow herald Rolando is terrible at this job. How did he spend forty minutes on a single call? Andrea believes in kindness, but come on. Befriending someone who is about to die has no value; it’s like flushing cash down the toilet. This person will not become a lifelong friend who attends your wedding, or your funeral. They will not celebrate your triumphs, or comfort you during your failures. They won’t even move into tomorrow with you.

What’s the point?

After Rolando hangs up his call that was certainly shorter than his first but still not as timely as it could’ve been, Andrea knows she must intervene.

“Rolando,” she whispers. “Can I give you some advice?”

He nods with teary eyes and no backbone.

“Do yourself a favor and stop thinking of these Deckers as people,” she says, turning to her computer and dialing the next number because time is of the essence—the other important lesson her coworker needs to learn. “Just deliver the warning and move on. Getting someone’s life story isn’t something you should bring home at the end of the day.”

He stares, and she knows her words have flown over his head, much like whenever she gives her daughter priceless advice. She has said her piece and won’t bother him again.

Andrea goes back to work as her twentieth Decker of the night answers the phone.

“Hello, I’m calling from Death-Cast. . . .”

While the Deckers may no longer have futures, Andrea is positive she will have a long one here at Death-Cast.





Valentino


1:11 a.m.

I hate waiting rooms.

The eight hours Scarlett had spent in surgery, I couldn’t stay still—I couldn’t wait. It’s like I didn’t have that organ in my body. So I stayed busy. When Mom was hungry, I headed to the cafeteria and brought her food. When Dad was tired but didn’t want to close his eyes, I found him a nice, strong black coffee from this little diner across the street from the hospital. When the parking meter needed to be fed, I was there at the top of the hour with my pocket change. During all the other still moments, I would pace the halls or wash my face, hands, and hair in the bathroom or get to know the nurses or flip through magazines for fun gossip to share with Scarlett once her surgery was over. Once she was okay.

Waiting to see if someone you love will live is excruciating.

Waiting to die is miserable too.

I wish I was a parking meter, able to buy more time with the drop of a quarter. Especially since Scarlett isn’t answering my calls, either because she’s too busy or she doesn’t recognize the number. The nurse has let me use the desk phone twice so far, and I don’t think she’s going to care if I believe in the third time being the charm. But my hands are tied here. Scarlett has to know what’s happening, especially before she boards her plane in the next couple hours. If the nurse gives me attitude again I might have to play the Decker card. She’ll either become extremely sympathetic and pull up a chair for me so I can spam my sister with calls until she answers, or she’ll kick me out of the building for fear of me endangering the patients. I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m tossed out on the streets like some ticking time bomb; maybe that unknown is why anyone would be concerned to host a Decker in their space.