Page 14

New York Alano

2:15 a.m. (Eastern Daylight Time)

A herald’s one job is to make sure Deckers don’t die unwarned, and I’m going to fail.

I have a hard enough time living with myself already. I can’t let this happen too.

There’s forty-five minutes until the outreach window closes on the East Coast, and I’ve made only twenty of my thirty calls.

I deserve to be fired for not managing my time properly, but the other heralds are so backed up that we need all hands on

deck, even mine. Roah Wetherholt has been forced to step in too if we’re going to have any chance of getting this done.

Of the twenty calls I’ve made, Harry Hope remains the worst experience, but the other nineteen Deckers have become nightmares of their own. They’ve pleaded for time I can’t give them and begged for answers I don’t have on how they will die. The last Decker, Niall McMahon, even threatened to wait outside Death-Cast to kill me because I called him so late after midnight. Unless Andrea Donahue has neglected to tell me my name is on her roster, I don’t have to take Niall McMahon’s threat seriously, but I report him anyway so we’re not held liable in case he has a violent spree on his End Day.

Before I can dial my next Decker, Andrea knocks on my partition panel. At first I think she’s finally checking in on me after

returning to my desk nearly two hours ago. You would think I’m not her daughter’s best friend or a herald she’s supervising

or even her boss’s son for how much she ignored me after my traumatic call.

“Why do I know this name?” Andrea asks, pointing to her monitor. “Is he an actor?”

I read the name on Andrea’s screen and inform her that Caspian Townsend is an Olympic gold medalist. I understand how Andrea

confused him for an actor, since Caspian Townsend rose to fame as the Olympic darling during the games and was hailed as the

Michael Phelps of fencing. Hollywood is even making a movie about him. Now Caspian Townsend won’t be around to see it.

“An Olympic gold medalist is a first for me,” Andrea says like she’s collecting prized Deckers. She calls him immediately.

“Hello, I’m calling from Death-Cast to speak with Casper Townsend.”

“Caspian,” I correct.

“Caspian Townsend,” Andrea says with fake remorse in her voice but not her face, which looks annoyed because his name is not

what she mistook it to be.

I’m bothered by this, but I return to my desk. Eyes on my own paper.

My next Decker, Régine D’Aboville, is an au pair from Paris who doesn’t want to spend her End Day with her host family, so I’m suggesting the Last Friend app when Andrea gets up from her desk.

I’m expecting Andrea to do another lap like she did half an hour ago, when she scolded Honey Doyle for not speaking up when

delivering the most devastating news in a person’s life, Rylee Ray for crying on the phone with a Decker and making their

moment about herself, and Fausto for spending eight minutes on one call because he was consoling a parent whose five-year-old

is dying today. But Andrea doesn’t talk to anyone. She just leaves the call center. I almost peek at her screen to see if

she’s done with her list, but I focus on my work.

After hanging up on Régine D’Aboville, I call the next Decker, Glenda Lashey, and I’m overwhelmed that I still have eight

people on my list after her. Even if I get every Decker off the line in the desired five minutes, I’ll still be five minutes

short. I could do everything right and still fail. This wouldn’t have happened if Harry Hope didn’t shoot himself at the start

of my shift. If I didn’t walk away for half an hour. The memory of the gunshot is so loud that it’s as if it’s happening all

over again. I can barely focus on Glenda Lashey as she talks about wishing her dead mother hadn’t died when she was a little

girl and that she knew where her father is.

“Hmm. I’m ready to move on to my End Day,” Glenda Lashey says. “Do I just hang up now?”

“If that’s what you’d like,” I say. I hate myself for thinking it, but it’s what I would like. We’re five minutes into her call, seconds away from six. That’s another Decker’s minute.

“Actually...”

Glenda Lashey asks about special events happening today, and I’m silently cursing myself for not encouraging her to hang up

when she asked. I tell her about the All-Night Market in Brooklyn for End Day–worthy meals; a boat tour around the Hudson

and East River, where she’ll have to wear a life jacket and be accompanied by a tour guide/lifeguard; and a new art installation

at the Met of Valentino Prince on the deck of a ship to commemorate his status as the world’s first Decker. None of that interests

her, and she hangs up after taking another three minutes.

I’m losing this race against time.

I undo my tie, trying to breathe. My chest is tight again. This might be another asthma attack or even a panic attack. The

latter can lead to the former. I still don’t have my inhaler, because I rushed out of the wellness room to return to the call

center so Deckers don’t die unwarned. How could I forget my inhaler? Seriously. My father told me to not tease Death, and

here I am, doing just that.

My parents don’t answer when I call them from my desk phone, and I can’t text them for my inhaler because personal phones are forbidden in the call center. Our phones remain in our lockers in the wellness room, where my inhaler also is. I stop wasting time and rush to get it. It’s irresponsible knowing how far behind I am on my calls, but I need peace of mind and functioning lungs, so I don’t drop dead while speaking with Deckers.

What if I am a Decker and my body is telling me I’m going to die since no one else has?

There would be justice in that given how much I’ve messed up.

I’m lightheaded when I arrive in the wellness room. I weakly open my locker, grab my inhaler, and pump the medicine into my

mouth. I rest my forehead against the locker and inhale for five seconds and exhale for eight like earlier tonight, over and

over as the harp music helps me relax. It’s so nice that I wish I could stay, but Deckers need me.

I’m leaving for the call center when I hear someone talking in the quiet zone. I assume it’s a custodian until I recognize

the voice. Andrea Donahue. It seems hard to believe, but I wonder if Andrea experienced something difficult on her last call

that required more privacy than the private booths in the call center. I can’t blame her when I did the same thing. I slowly

open the door so I don’t startle her.

Andrea Donahue is sitting in the velvet rocking chair, laughing into her phone as if she’s in the comfort of her own home.

She should be upstairs speaking with Deckers. We both should, but Andrea especially. “You’re never going to become the next

TMZ if you don’t loosen those purse strings,” Andrea says mockingly. “If you’re not willing to pay up, I’m happy to sell the

story to a tabloid that can afford it.”

I hide outside the quiet zone, listening even though I’m scared of what I’ll overhear.

Andrea scoffs. “You paid four thousand dollars for the tip on that soap star last week, and I’m supposed to accept half as much for a beloved Olympic gold medalist? Have you no shame?”

I have to be misunderstanding something. Surely Andrea Donahue isn’t keeping Deckers waiting for her call because she’s too

busy leaking her newsworthy contacts to tabloids. She’s definitely not doing an illegal side hustle on company time.

“I’ll settle for five, Gus, but I’m not happy,” Andrea says, rocking back and forth in her chair. “Uh-huh... uh-huh...

Well, there are no other exciting names on the roster tonight.... I do have another story, but I don’t want to waste my

breath on you when I know someone at TMZ will pay up.... Fine. How much would you pay for a story about Alano Rosa?”

Hearing my name is as shocking as that gunshot tonight but pierces harder. This is my best friend’s mother selling a story

about me. Andrea has watched me grow up during her entire employment here, and she’s seen more of me these past three years

as Ariana invites me over to her apartment. Did I say something while at Andrea’s that she’s now pitching to some tabloid?

Did Ariana share my secret that only she and my parents know? Did Andrea somehow figure out my secret that no one knows?

“Add another ten thousand, and I’ll come to you first with my next lead,” Andrea says.

I should be downstairs, but I have to see what she knows.

“Now that deal I’m happy about,” Andrea says. She relaxes into the chair and kicks her feet up on the beanbag while telling Gus about

my first time heralding tonight. How I got so scared after my Decker killed himself that I hid under the table. How my father

had to save me from an asthma attack. How my parents pulled me from the call center for thirty minutes.

“You can only be that bad at your job when your father runs the company,” she says.

I almost think she’s speaking directly to me. She laughs again.

“No, this won’t get traced back to me. Everyone will suspect the new hires if anything.” Andrea checks her watch. “I have

to go break some bad news to four more Deckers, but I’ll be in touch soon—”

She notices me watching her through the door and immediately hangs up.

I back away and head for the door, but when she shouts my name from the quiet zone, I freeze.

Andrea comes out of the room. “What are you doing here?” she asks, staring at me like I’m the suspicious one, a glint of danger

flashing in her eyes.

What if this is how I die tonight? Killed by a head herald after catching her leaking company secrets?

I show her my inhaler. “I came to grab this, and I heard you talking.”

“How much... What did you hear?”

The uncomfortable reality of not knowing everything Andrea shared settles in. “I heard enough” is all I say.

Neither of us know what the other knows.

Andrea stares, trying to figure out her next move, like when she’s playing chess against Ariana. “You’re a smart boy, Alano, so I won’t insult you with any lies about that call not being what it looked like. Those tabloid reporters are vultures, always circling famous Deckers, trying to get that first bite so they can break the news of someone’s End Day. I’m just feeding the scavengers.”

“You’re violating the trust of the Deckers whose privacy was promised.”

“The world would’ve found out anyway, just like we do everything else about a celebrity’s life. Why should their deaths be

any different?”

“Exactly. They’ve had a lifetime of cameras in their faces. Let them live their End Day in peace.”

“Do not overconcern yourself with the dead,” Andrea says gently, like I’m some child who doesn’t know better.

“Deckers are not dead yet. Neither am I.”

The tension is tight between us.

“Why are you selling stories about me? I’m your daughter’s best friend.”

“Everything I do, I do for my daughter,” Andrea Donahue says, as if that’s a good enough reason to not treat people as people.

“I’ve needed the money for her education, for her future. She doesn’t come from a family of billionaires, so I saw an opportunity

to make her dreams come true, and I took it. I’m not harming anyone.”

These leaks can not only damage my position in the company, but they can damage Death-Cast’s reputation, especially when the Death Guard is fabricating stories about us. We don’t need real internal offenses supporting their narrative. On the other hand, if we were able to maintain trust with the public after the Death’s Dozen, then I can survive a story about my reasonable reaction to a traumatic call. Especially if that money is supporting Ariana’s future.

“What’s your move, Alano?” Andrea asks.

I’m asking myself the same thing. I check the clock. There’s seventeen minutes left before we close the outreach window. I

have eight Deckers to call and Andrea has four—twelve Deckers total. A chill runs down my spine as I sweat over the risk of

history repeating with the Death’s Dozen. Everyone would know that a head herald and the heir are responsible for that catastrophe,

even if Andrea has to leak that information herself. The pressure to save these Deckers by informing them of their fates is

suffocating, and I’m scared I’ll be forced to dehumanize them the way Andrea has for ten years in order to get through all

the calls.

“We’re going back to work,” I say.

Andrea grabs my arm. “I’m not going anywhere unless I know where you stand.”

If Andrea didn’t have my best friend as her shield, this would look different. She would be fired and escorted out of the

building by security before all phones were down in the call center. But I can handle some scrutiny from the media. “If you

promise to never violate a Decker’s privacy again, I won’t tell my father.”

The moment Andrea Donahue takes to think this over feels like forever. “Don’t tell my daughter either and you got yourself a deal,” she says, as if she’s doing me the favor for covering up her crimes. “Ariana’s life shouldn’t be ruined because of how much I love her.”

There’s finally something we agree on.