The vendor tables in Times Square are usually too touristy for me to give a flying fuck, I have no use for magnets of the Empire State Building or taxicab key chains with my name. (Not that anyone ever puts any love into manufacturing things for the Orions of the world.) But even though it’s only been a month since Death-Cast first announced their program, the street vendors were on top of their shit with producing thematic souvenirs: a Smoke ’Em If You Got ’Em cigarette lighter; shot glasses with a skull sticker; sunglasses with red X’s painted on; and lots of apparel like shirts and hats. There’s a damn cute beanie I’m tempted to buy, but I’m already wearing my Yankees snapback that belonged to my dad, and this thing always lives on top of my curls whenever I’m out and about. I wouldn’t trade this hat for anything in the world. Okay, that’s a big stretch, I’d swap out this hat for a healthy heart in a millisecond, but you feel me.

“This isn’t even clever,” Dalma says, picking up a shirt that reads Death-Cast is dying to call you!

It’s so corny I want to set it on fire.

“Yeah, I’m not buying that one.”

Then a shirt does catch my eye. It’s white with Have a Happy End Day! written in a typewriter font across the chest. It’s kind of classy even if I don’t believe an End Day can be happy. What’s so great about dying? But I guess it’s more inspirational, and I can’t knock that. If nothing else, it’ll be a cool-ass souvenir and something to show off when people inevitably ask Where were you when Death-Cast went live?, kind of like how people ask Where were you on 9/11?

Hopefully nothing traumatic goes down tonight.

I don’t need any more grief in my life.

I buy the shirt, throwing it on top of the navy shirt I was already rocking to go with my skinny jeans. This look works too.

“You getting anything?” I ask Dalma.

“A headache,” Dalma says, back on her phone. “My mom won’t stop checking in.”

Our family—but really Dalma’s actual family—are visiting her stepfather Floyd’s parents in Dayton, Ohio, for the week, and it’s the first time they’ve left us alone to fend for ourselves. Her mom, Dayana, takes her responsibility as my legal guardian very literally, especially to honor my mother, aka her childhood best friend.

“She’s just trying to keep us alive,” I say. “At least she actually let us hang back.”

“A moment of silence for Dahlia,” Dalma says, closing her eyes.