I walk deeper into the Square—is that what New Yorkers call it? I need to learn fast—and pass someone in an Iron Man costume as he talks to someone mostly dressed up as Elmo, the massive head on the ground as if decapitated as the woman smokes a cigarette. I love this city with my whole heart already. I can’t help but sneak a picture of that for Scarlett too, in case that’s a one-time sighting.

I keep going and stumble onto some teen on a stage. At first I’m expecting him to sing a song into his mic, but instead he’s speaking with this haunting sadness about the brain aneurysms in the family and the dread of dying from one himself. It’s heavier than I expected on a party that’s been billed as a celebration of life, but then I find the sign that reads Tell Your Death-Cast Story, and everything makes sense. That stage is for people talking about how this service will change their lives.

It can’t hurt to listen in on why people are willing to believe Death-Cast.

There aren’t any more seats on these red glass bleachers, but I don’t mind finding a place to stand. There’s a spot next to this beautiful Black girl with incredible style and this cute white boy whose curls are creeping out from under his baseball cap. The boy looks like he’s having a hard time keeping it together, wiping the tears from his cheek.

He must have a huge heart.

Orion

11:17 p.m.

These Death-Cast origin stories are breaking my heart.

(Even more.)

But I can’t stop listening, not even as I feel like I’m being ripped apart: a woman’s fiancé died in a limo accident on the way to their wedding; a child drowned in a bathtub after her big brother got locked out of the home while taking out the trash; a girl’s best friend got knifed to death on her birthday, forever staining that day; an older man’s wife and child died during a complicated pregnancy, and while Death-Cast can’t predict the fate of fetuses, the man still could have braced himself for this tremendous hole in his heart; and then there was a girl who got orphaned like me when she lost her parents in a tornado.

“We have time for one more story,” the Death-Cast rep says. She looks to be in her early twenties with a young teacher vibe, like she’s about to call on a student for the last presentation of the day. She reaches into the glass bowl, ready to fish out a name.

It’s got to be mine.

It has to be, this is the only time I’m ever going to be able to tell my story and—

“Lincoln,” the Death-Cast rep calls.