The First to Die at the End

by Adam Silvera

“Hey, garrochón,” Floyd says as he shakes my hand. He’s got that old-school Puerto Rican vibe where men don’t hug that much. My dad was like that a little too. “Glad you’re back in one piece.” “You too. Floyd, this is Valentino.” Floyd looks at Valentino a little skeptically. It could come off a little homophobic, not going to lie, but I know it’s probably more caution over having a living, breathing Decker in the house. He overcomes it with a handshake. “Nice to meet you, Valentino. I’m sorry for . . . you know.” “Thank you, sir.” “Call me Floyd, please. Come on downstairs.” Before I can ask why everyone’s downstairs, Valentino turns to me. “What’s a garrochón?” “Tall and lanky, basically.” “Been calling him that since he was a kid,” Floyd says as he goes down the stairs. “By the time he was twelve he was taller than me.” “Not that hard,” I say.