“Hey, it’s what’s on the inside that counts, right?” I throw that line at people a lot, can’t lie. But it fails to draw a smile out of Valentino. “I got diagnosed with viral cardiomyopathy a few years ago, which can be super dramatically translated as my heart trying to kill me. If you want boring medical details, then WebMD can give you the CliffsNotes.”

“Two different websites,” Dalma says.

“Whatever. The point is that it can happen whenever, wherever.”

“Now Death-Cast will help you breathe easier,” Valentino says. “Orion, I’m so sorry that this is something you even have to worry about. I’m in awe of you.”

I probably shouldn’t tell him that kind words like that get my heart going. I’m not trying to die, but death by compliment sounds nice.

“If only that was everything,” I say.

I kind of want to stop, feeling guilty that we’re swinging at Valentino with all this death talk when he came to Times Square tonight to live his life. But with Valentino’s concerned, raised eyebrows and soul-gazing blue eyes, I get the vibe that he’s waiting for me to drop this other chapter in my story.

“So I lost my parents on 9/11,” I say, giving it that pause that everyone needs to swallow that down. But I’ve also learned that you can’t wait too long because if you’re not running your mouth, someone else will start running theirs to tell you their own 9/11 story.

That’s what happens when your city lives through a traumatic disaster like that.

Everyone felt something across the city, across the country, across the world. But there’s a time and place, and I’ve lost count of how many times I tell people about losing my parents only for them to jump at the chance to let me know how they couldn’t catch a bus home, or weren’t allowed to play outside for a week. What am I supposed to say to that? I know what—I don’t care, and Your life went on; my parents’ didn’t, and You got your life back, but mine changed.

This is where outsiders like Valentino are blessings.

He’s quiet, either too stunned to find the next words he wants to say or knows no words can change anything. No matter what, I know he’s not bursting to tell me what went down with him that day. Lips sealed, eyes glistening.

Tonight, more than ever, I feel nine years old all over again as I relive that day.