“I’ll just go first,” Dalma says flatly, buying me time. “So my dad died from kidney cancer. I was three, so I don’t remember a ton, just little things, like he lost a bunch of weight even though all he did was sleep all the time. My mom told me he was sick, so I would bring him ginger ale and crackers, but it never helped.” There’s no heartbreak cracking up her voice, it’s all in the past. “Then one day he was gone and I didn’t understand why, and he kept being gone and eventually I understood.”

I’ve known Dalma my entire life, but I’ve never heard her describe her grief that way. Like it was riding a bike with a tiny hole in the tire, leaking just enough air that it’s slowing you down but takes a while before you understand the full problem. Except no, that analogy has to be trashed because unlike that tire that can be replaced or resealed, no one could pump more air into her father and bring him back to life. And Dalma is quick to shut someone down if they talk about her stepfather as a replacement, no matter how much she loves him.

Man, I’m ready to offer condolences like this is fresh when Valentino beats me to it.

“I’m really sorry for your loss. It’s not fair that you lost him so young.”

“It happens,” Dalma says with a shrug. “Unfortunately, it happened to me.”

I bump shoulders with her, knowing that she’s always down for a hug, but she’s only going to let herself be so vulnerable in front of strangers—and friends-in-the-making. Back home, we’re always swapping stories about what it’s like not having our fathers or my mother around anymore. Like after our graduation party, when it was just the two of us, we talked about missing her father and my parents in the audience cheering with everyone else, though we’d never say any of that around Dayana or Floyd because we don’t want them to feel bad. It’s wild how we protect the grown-ups like that. But also, not really.

Life doesn’t care how young you are. It forces you to grow up anyway.

“That’s my fun little Death-Cast origin story,” Dalma says. “Your turn, O-Bro.”

Her story wasn’t fun, and mine isn’t either. There’s got to be many someones across the country who are signing up for Death-Cast just because, no strings attached, no trauma lived. Must be nice.

“I’ve got a heart thing,” I say, and it immediately shocks Valentino, like that first slap of winter air when you step out the door.

“Are you serious?” he asks. “But you look healthy.”