Marie Lloyd, she lived in a tenement on Grand Street and died there of tuberculosis in the spring of 1871. Emily von Hoffman, hit by a stray bullet on Astoria Boulevard, she was fourteen and will always be fourteen, and Ruth Rosen, wasted away by cancer at an advanced age, on the fifth floor of Mount Sinai, she weighed sixty-three pounds when she took her last breath, and no one was quite sure how old she really was. Charlie Willis, also cancer, aged fifty-four but his spirit is that of a much younger man. Julio Garza, nineteen, fell down an elevator shaft in the King Towers on 115th Street. Daniel Eismann, who was thirty-one in 1991 when he died at home of AIDS, and Michael Brown, his true love, who hanged himself from a pipe in the bathroom of the apartment they shared on 12th Street and University; they are together still. Chester Perkins, who wants everyone to know that it was that dirty dog, Al Jefferson, who beat him to death with a brick in the courtyard of a building on Jerome Avenue, four days after the end of the Korean War. Andrea Robinson, who leaped to her death from her Juliette balcony on West End Avenue after learning that her husband had confessed to raping an eleven-year-old girl in Riverside Park. Mitchell Rockman, who fell to the sidewalk on the corner of 47th Street and Broadway one winter’s day, dead of a stroke at the age of sixty-two, who was buried beside his mother and father under the name he was born with, Morris Roth, and whose son Brian said Kaddish for him every day for the following year. Indra Vajpajan, of complications from lupus; Katherine Biggs, of complications from diabetes; and Smitty Dufresne, of complications from alcoholism. Juan Javier, one of eighty-seven people killed on March 25, 1990, in a fire at the Happy Land Social Club on Southern Boulevard in the Bronx. Amy Castro, who was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of twenty-nine but died when she was struck on the head by a bottle that a college boy named Dave Perkins threw from the roof of a dormitory on LaGuardia Place. Joseph Levy, who ran six times for the Queens city council and never won, dead, everyone said, of sheer disappointment. Rosemarie Winter, known to the residents of East Tremont as Miss Rose, dead at the age of ninety-six in her bed, with her nurse holding her hand; and Susan Araki, who passed away from leukemia in a rented room on 35th Avenue, with her husband sitting quietly in a chair against the wall, and she still wishes someone had told her that she was dying. Anna De Lancey, the wife of financier Paul T. De Lancey: she was photographed in a Dior dress outside the first Metropolitan Opera House on the opening night of the 1955–56 season, and for more than ten years thereafter was known as one of the most fashionable women in Manhattan, until she passed away of acute nephritis on the very same day the old Met was torn down. Simon Simmons, overdosed on heroin and vodka in a penthouse apartment overlooking Madison Square, who would like to come back and try and get clean again; and Valerie Perricone, who died that same night, also of an overdose, though in her case of heroin alone, who would like to come back and have another taste. John Berman, struck by a horse-drawn wagon on Maiden Lane; Giovanni Garaglia, knifed by a man with a large port-wine birthmark on his face, who mistakenly thought Giovanni was laughing at him; Tilly Carter, eight years old, who woke one night suffering from an acute attack of asthma and never made it as far as her mother’s bedroom door. William Cisco, who was on the 94th floor of the South Tower on the morning of September 11, 2001. Trey Halloway, drowned attempting to swim across Spuyten Duyvil in 1907, in order to win a bet with his brother; he has been cold ever since, and wonders why no one builds fires anymore; and Hillary Woods, who was the only colored person in the Rainbow Room on New Year’s Eve, 1935, when she sang Auld Lang Syne with Skip Patterson’s Band, and everyone applauded and called out for more. Gary Sykes, who died of injuries he sustained when he drove his semi into a bus on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, and he would like to apologize to the nine people on that bus who also died. Louise Hantagan, who insists that it was not syphilis that killed her but a broken heart. Sam Chan, of emphysema on a beautiful spring day in 1922, who wonders why his old neighborhood has changed so much. Matthew Holder, who was stabbed to death with a pencil by a prisoner at Rikers Island one week into his job as a corrections officer, and who has spent the years since trying to find out if his wife and children are safe. The O’Malley family, all of whom—fourteen in number—died during the influenza epidemic of 1918 and who, having no descendants, ask to be remembered by anyone who has a memory to spare.