“I’m just trying to help,” he says, wondering if this was all a mistake.

Perhaps Death-Cast should have remained buried.

“You are helping,” Naya says. “But until they believe in you, don’t forget who already does.”

Joaquin gazes at his brilliant, beautiful wife, praying that Death-Cast won’t call either of them until they’re at least one hundred so they can grow old together. During his wedding vows, he told Naya that he wants to love her even when she has more wrinkles than any of the shirts he balls up and tosses into the closet at the end of the day. She found him funny even when others didn’t, and just like that first time he heard her laugh in a coffee shop, he knew it was a song he could listen to on repeat for the rest of his life.

Together, Joaquin and Naya turn, their eyes landing on their son. Alano is only nine years old, and it took just as many years to conceive him. The Rosas tried and tried, then gave up, and tried and tried again to no success. Joaquin kept blaming himself, furious at all those sperm cells that were strolling during the race and not even bothering to cross the finish line. He resisted all conversations about adoption because more than anything he wanted a child whose DNA stemmed from his own, from Naya’s.

A miracle happened and here he is, Alano Angel Rosa.

He’s fast asleep on the couch with his new German shepherd puppy as if tonight isn’t the start of a true golden age.

Given how the night is unfolding, perhaps it’s great that his son isn’t witnessing these horrors.

Joaquin may not be the devil, but let everyone believe that if they must.

They’ll remember soon enough who the real monsters are and realize that he was the hero all along.

Valentino

12:29 a.m.

En route to the hospital, I can’t help but wonder what’s going to kill me.

Had Orion gotten the End Day call, he would have every reason to suspect his heart being responsible for doing him in.

But me?

It could be anything.