Jayven DeLuca, 1109 Redbud Drive Manhattan, New York, NY (2026)

06/06/2026

On His Way Back From a Fishing Trip, a Fisherman Notices Something Unusual Moving in the Water. As He Gets Closer, He Realizes What It Is. A Baby Dolphin. Tangled in a Discarded Fishing Net. Struggling to Breathe. And Then Something Unexpected Happens. The Dolphin Swims Toward Him.
The day had been ordinary until that moment.
The fisherman was heading home. The catch had been decent. The weather had cooperated. The kind of trip that ends with tired satisfaction and plans to do it again next week. Nothing remarkable. Nothing that would change anything.
Then he saw movement in the water that did not look right.
At first, it could have been anything. Debris. A large fish. The shadow of something below the surface catching light in a way that drew the eye. The ocean is full of things that move, and most of them require no attention.
But this movement was wrong. Labored. Desperate. The kind of motion that speaks of struggle rather than swimming.
He slowed the boat. He changed course. He moved closer to investigate what instinct told him needed investigating.
A baby dolphin.
Young enough that it should still be with its mother. Small enough that the net wrapped around its body seemed enormous by comparison. Tangled in discarded fishing gear that someone had lost or thrown overboard without thinking about what would happen next.
The net was doing what nets do. Constricting. Tightening. Preventing the movements that dolphins need to survive. Dolphins are not fish. They cannot extract oxygen from water. They must surface to breathe, and they must swim to surface, and this baby could barely do either.
The fisherman understood immediately what he was looking at. He had seen marine debris before. He had seen the damage it caused. He knew that without intervention, this dolphin would exhaust itself and drown within hours, perhaps within minutes.
He prepared to attempt a rescue, expecting the dolphin to flee from his approach. Wild animals fear humans. Dolphins, despite their reputation for friendliness, are not domesticated creatures that seek human contact. A trapped animal should panic more, not less, when a potential predator approaches.
But the dolphin did not flee.
It swam toward the boat.
Not frantically. Not accidentally. With what appeared to be deliberate intent, the baby dolphin moved closer to the human who had stopped to investigate its distress. It positioned itself near the hull. It remained still enough to be touched.
It showed trust.
Scientists debate whether dolphins truly understand human intentions or whether their approach behavior stems from other factors. Curiosity. Exhaustion. The simple lack of options when trapped and unable to escape anyway.
But the fisherman was not thinking about scientific debates. He was thinking about a baby animal that needed help and seemed to be asking for it.
He reached into the water.
The net was tangled badly. Wrapped around the dorsal fin, the flippers, the tail. The kind of entanglement that tightens with every movement, that punishes struggle, that turns a dolphin's own strength against it.
Carefully, methodically, the fisherman began cutting and unwrapping. The dolphin remained still. Calmer than it should have been. Patient in a way that made the rescue possible.
Monofilament line. Nylon netting. The materials designed to catch fish had caught something else entirely. Ghost gear, researchers call it. Fishing equipment that continues killing long after it has been abandoned, trapping animals that stumble into it by accident.
Strand by strand, the net came away.
The dolphin's movements became less restricted. Its breathing became easier. The panic that must have gripped it for hours or days began to fade as freedom returned.
When the last piece of netting was removed, the fisherman did something that surprised even himself.
He gently kissed the dolphin on the head.
Not a planned gesture. Not something he would have predicted doing. The kind of spontaneous expression of connection that happens when a rescue succeeds and relief overwhelms everything else.
The dolphin did not flinch. It remained still for that moment of contact, as if accepting the gesture, as if understanding that this human had given it something valuable.
Then it was released.
The fisherman let go. The dolphin swam away. Slowly at first, testing its restored freedom, then faster as it realized that the weight and restriction were truly gone. It dove. It surfaced. It moved the way dolphins are supposed to move, with the fluid grace that makes them among the most beautiful animals in the ocean.
It did not look back. It did not perform tricks or express gratitude in ways that humans could photograph and share. It simply returned to its life, carrying with it a second chance that had arrived in the form of a fisherman who noticed something wrong and chose to stop.
The entire encounter lasted perhaps fifteen minutes. The fisherman continued home. The dolphin continued wherever baby dolphins go when they are separated from their mothers in an ocean full of dangers.
But something had happened in those fifteen minutes that both of them would carry forward.
A connection across species. A moment of trust that should not have occurred but did. A rescue that succeeded because one party asked for help and another party provided it.
The ocean is vast and largely indifferent to individual suffering. Millions of marine animals die every year from entanglement in abandoned fishing gear. Most of them die alone, unseen, their struggles ending in exhaustion and drowning far from any witness.
This dolphin was different only because a fisherman happened to pass by. Only because he chose to investigate rather than continue home. Only because he had the tools and the patience to cut away what was killing it.
Luck. Timing. The random intersection of two lives in an ocean where such intersections usually do not happen.
The fisherman has no way to know what happened to the dolphin afterward. Whether it found its mother. Whether it survived to adulthood. Whether it carries any memory of the human who freed it from the net that was slowly strangling it.
He only knows what he did. What he felt. The strange moment when a wild animal swam toward him instead of away, trusting him with its life.
The kiss was instinct. The rescue was choice. The outcome was a baby dolphin swimming free in an ocean where freedom is never guaranteed.
Some stories end with the rescue. The rest belongs to the ocean.

06/06/2026

A Janitor Almost Got Fired After CCTV Caught Him Sneaking Into a Gorilla Enclosure. The Board Reviewed the Surveillance Footage, Ready to Terminate Him for Breaking Every Rule. But as They Kept Watching, They Realized Something. The Gorilla Was Not Healing Because of the Enclosure. She Was Not Healing Because of the Food. She Was Healing Because of Him.
The gorilla arrived at the sanctuary broken.
Not just physically, though the physical damage was severe enough. Poachers had raided her home, cutting through the forest where her family group had lived. They killed what they could sell. They scattered what they could not. They left her injured and unconscious on the forest floor, assuming she would die.
She did not die.
Local villagers found her. They recognized what she was, understood her value, knew that somewhere people existed who could help. They contacted authorities. Authorities contacted the sanctuary. Within days, a gorilla who had witnessed the destruction of everything she knew was transported to a facility designed to save animals exactly like her.
The physical wounds began to heal. The veterinary team was skilled. The enclosure was appropriate. The food was nutritious and abundant. Everything the sanctuary could provide, it provided.
But the gorilla would not recover.
For weeks, she displayed behaviors that the staff recognized as trauma responses. She would take her food, retreat immediately to the corner of her enclosure, and eat alone with her back to everyone. She watched every human who approached with the wariness of a creature that had learned exactly what humans were capable of.
Every person near her was another potential threat. Every movement was a potential attack. Every sound was a potential warning of violence to come.
The sanctuary staff understood. They had seen trauma before. They knew that psychological wounds heal more slowly than physical ones, and that some animals never fully recover from what humans have done to them.
They gave her space. They maintained routines. They hoped that time would do what intervention could not.
Then security noticed something on the cameras.
The sanctuary maintained CCTV surveillance throughout its facilities. Standard practice for animal welfare monitoring, for security, for documentation of behavior and progress. The footage was reviewed periodically, checked for anything unusual, filed for future reference.
Something unusual was happening in the gorilla's enclosure.
The night shift janitor had been entering her space.
Not during the day, when staff were present and protocols were enforced. At night, when the facility was quiet, when the gorilla was supposed to be resting, when no one was watching except the cameras that recorded everything.
He would slip inside the enclosure. He would sit down at a respectful distance. He would talk softly, his voice barely audible on the surveillance audio. He would make small gestures. Slow movements. The body language of someone who understood that trust cannot be demanded, only offered.
He was not forcing anything. He was not trying to touch her or feed her or make her perform for his benefit. He was simply being present. Consistently. Quietly. Patiently.
Night after night, the footage showed the same thing. The janitor entering. The janitor sitting. The janitor speaking softly to a gorilla who had every reason to hate his species.
And gradually, something changed.
The gorilla began to watch him differently. Not with the hypervigilance of prey anticipating attack, but with the curiosity of a creature encountering something it did not expect. She would move closer. She would remain nearby instead of retreating to her corner. She would eat in his presence instead of hiding.
She was responding to him in ways she did not respond to anyone else.
The board reviewed the footage to check on her progress. What they found was a clear violation of sanctuary protocols. An unauthorized employee entering an animal enclosure. Potential safety risks. Liability concerns. Every rule in the handbook had been broken.
The decision seemed obvious. Termination.
But as they kept watching, the obvious decision became impossible to make.
They watched the gorilla transform. They watched her body language shift from defensive to curious to something approaching comfortable. They watched her begin to trust in ways that weeks of professional care had not achieved.
The janitor had no training in animal psychology. He had no expertise in great ape behavior. He had no credentials that would justify what he was doing.
He had only patience. And kindness. And the willingness to sit with a traumatized creature night after night, asking nothing in return, offering only the message that not every human was there to hurt her.
The board faced a choice that protocols do not prepare you for.
Fire the janitor and follow the rules, knowing that the connection he had built might be the only thing standing between this gorilla and permanent psychological damage.
Or acknowledge that sometimes healing happens in ways that cannot be planned, cannot be scheduled, cannot be reduced to protocols and procedures.
They chose the gorilla.
The janitor kept his job. His visits continued, now documented and supervised but no longer secret. The sanctuary adjusted its approach, incorporating his presence into the gorilla's care plan.
And the gorilla continued to heal.
Not because of the enclosure, though the enclosure was appropriate. Not because of the food, though the food was nutritious. Not because of the veterinary care, though the veterinary care was excellent.
Because she had finally found a human she could trust.
The story challenges assumptions about expertise and credentials. The professionals did everything right. They followed best practices. They provided optimal care. And it was not enough.
What was enough was a janitor who understood something that training does not always teach. That trauma creates isolation. That isolation deepens trauma. That the cure for both is connection, and connection cannot be forced or scheduled or optimized.
It can only be offered. Consistently. Patiently. Without expectation.
The janitor offered it. The gorilla accepted it. The bond formed despite every reason it should not have formed.
A creature traumatized by humans learned to trust a human again. Not because he was special. Not because he had magic skills. Because he showed up. Because he was patient. Because he understood that healing happens in its own time, and the only thing you can do is be present when it starts.
The surveillance footage that almost ended his career became evidence of something the sanctuary had been trying to achieve for weeks. Progress. Trust. The beginning of recovery.
The cameras caught a rule being broken. They also caught a life being saved.
Some rules exist for good reasons. Some rules need to be broken for better ones.
The janitor knew which kind he was facing. The board, eventually, agreed.
The gorilla does not know about protocols or employment policies or the surveillance footage that documented her healing. She only knows that a human came to her when she was alone, spoke softly when she was afraid, and asked nothing except the chance to sit nearby.
And for now, that was all that mattered.

06/05/2026

Near the End of Summer, in the Shadow of Mount Vesuvius, a Volcano Woke. The Earth Trembled. Wells Dried Up. Animals Behaved Strangely. The Romans Who Lived There Ignored the Signs. On August 24th, in the Year 79 AD, Vesuvius Exploded. Thousands Died. Cities Vanished. And in a Villa Outside Pompeii, a Ceremonial Chariot Was Buried. It Would Wait Nearly Two Thousand Years to Be Found.
The soil around Vesuvius was rich.
Fed by ancient ash from eruptions no living Roman remembered, the earth produced wine that was famous throughout the empire. The bay was beautiful. The climate was perfect. The wealthy built villas with views of the water, and the common people built lives in the cities that clustered at the mountain's base.
Pompeii. Herculaneum. Stabiae. Names that would become synonymous with catastrophe, but in the summer of 79 AD were simply places where people lived and worked and loved and complained about the heat.
The mountain had always been there. It had always rumbled occasionally. The Romans had grown accustomed to its moods the way people everywhere grow accustomed to the dangers they cannot avoid. Earthquakes happened. Hot springs bubbled. Life continued.
Then the signs intensified.
The earth trembled more frequently. Wells that had provided water for generations suddenly ran dry. Animals behaved strangely, restless and agitated, sensing something that human senses could not detect. The mountain was waking up, and everything except the people who lived in its shadow seemed to know it.
On August 24th, Vesuvius exploded.
A column of ash and pumice shot nine miles into the sky. The eruption column collapsed and reformed repeatedly, sending pyroclastic surges racing down the mountain. Avalanches of superheated gas, ash, and rock traveling at hundreds of miles per hour. Temperatures exceeding a thousand degrees. Death moving faster than anyone could run.
Herculaneum was buried first. Closer to the volcano, it received the full force of the pyroclastic flows. The residents who had not fled died instantly, their bodies preserved in the positions they held at the moment of death. Some were found still holding children. Some were found reaching for doors they would never open.
Pompeii followed. The city received hours of pumice fall before the surges arrived, giving some residents time to flee. Many did not. Many could not. Many chose to stay and protect their property, not understanding that property would mean nothing in the world that was coming.
Thousands died. The exact number will never be known.
The cities vanished under twenty meters of volcanic debris. Buildings collapsed under the weight of ash and stone. Streets disappeared. Lives ended. An entire civilization was flash-frozen in the moment of its destruction, preserved in ash like insects in amber.
And in a villa outside the city walls, a ceremonial chariot stood in a stable.
Bronze. Iron. Wood. Four wheels, still on their axle. Ornate metalwork depicting gods and heroes, scenes of mythology and triumph rendered in metal by craftsmen whose names have been lost to history.
The chariot had been used in festivals. Perhaps weddings. Perhaps processions celebrating the victories or honors of the wealthy family who owned it. It was a status symbol, a parade float, a piece of political theater designed to demonstrate wealth and connection to power.
Then the ash came.
The roof of the stable collapsed under the accumulating weight. Debris buried the chariot where it stood. The wheels stopped turning. The bronze stopped gleaming. Darkness and silence replaced the Mediterranean sun and the sounds of a living city.
The world forgot the chariot existed.
For nearly two thousand years, it sat in the dark.
Vesuvius slept. The Roman Empire fell. Barbarians swept across Europe. The Middle Ages passed. The Renaissance happened. The Enlightenment followed. Nations rose and fell. Wars were fought. Technologies transformed human existence.
And eighteen meters below the surface, a Roman chariot waited.
Excavators rediscovered Pompeii in the eighteenth century. They dug tunnels through the hardened volcanic debris, pulling frescoes and statues and skeletons from the grip of the volcano that had killed them. The discoveries astonished the world. Art. Architecture. Human remains frozen in their final moments. Evidence of a civilization preserved more completely than any archaeological site had ever provided.
But the villa outside the walls remained underground.
Tourists flocked to Pompeii's famous sites. The amphitheater. The forum. The brothels with their explicit frescoes. The plaster casts of victims, their bodies long decayed but their shapes preserved in the ash that had entombed them.
The chariot waited.
In 2021, archaeologists working on the outskirts of the Pompeii archaeological park noticed something unusual in the ground.
Not bone. Not pottery. Metal.
Bronze, still showing its characteristic green patina after two millennia of burial. The archaeologists widened the trench. They called for additional equipment. They worked carefully, brushing away volcanic debris that had last been disturbed when Vesuvius was still erupting.
And there it was.
A Roman ceremonial chariot. Still standing on its four wheels. Still intact despite the collapse of the building that had housed it. Still positioned exactly as it had been when the ash buried it in 79 AD.
The first complete Roman chariot ever found.
Not fragments reassembled by museum conservators. Not a reconstruction based on artistic depictions. The real thing, exactly as it had existed nearly two thousand years ago.
The wheels were still upright. Still aligned. The wooden spokes, preserved by the oxygen-free environment of the volcanic debris, were still attached. The ornate metalwork gleamed dully under the excavation lights, decorations of gods and horses emerging from the corrosion as archaeologists cleaned away the accumulated centuries.
The chariot had not been used for war. It had not been used for racing in the circus, the spectacles that Roman crowds loved. It was a ceremonial vehicle, the ancient equivalent of a luxury limousine used only for special occasions.
The family who owned it was wealthy. Influential. Perhaps connected to the imperial court in Rome. They had a villa outside the city walls, with stables and gardens and views of the bay that would cost fortunes today if the view did not include an active volcano.
They died in the eruption, probably. Their bodies were never found. Perhaps they fled and died on the road. Perhaps they sheltered in place and were buried. Perhaps they made it to safety and lived out their lives elsewhere, refugees from a disaster that erased their home.
The chariot could not tell their story. But it could tell its own.
The metalwork revealed religious imagery. Satyrs and nymphs. Scenes connected to marriage ceremonies and celebrations. The chariot had carried brides, perhaps. Had led wedding processions through the streets of Pompeii while crowds watched and celebrated.
Those wheels last turned in Mediterranean sunshine. They carried a family to a festival, glinting in the light, announcing wealth and status to everyone who watched. And then the ash fell. And the wheels stopped. And they have not moved since.
The discovery made international headlines. A complete Roman chariot, found in situ, positioned exactly where the eruption had frozen it nearly two thousand years ago. Archaeologists compared it to finding a time capsule sealed at the moment of catastrophe.
The ash that killed the owners preserved their wealth. The mountain that destroyed their world saved their chariot for ours.
There is something unbearably poignant about objects that outlast their owners. The chariot will be studied and preserved and eventually displayed in a museum. Millions of people will see it. Scholars will analyze its construction and decoration. It will become one of the iconic artifacts of Pompeii, joining the plaster casts and the frescoes in the public imagination of that terrible August day.
The family who owned it will remain anonymous. Their names lost. Their faces unknown. Their lives reduced to the possessions they left behind when the mountain woke up and ended everything.
But in a strange way, the chariot ensures they are not entirely forgotten.
Someone built this. Someone owned this. Someone rode in this to festivals and weddings and celebrations. Someone mattered enough to have a ceremonial chariot stored in their stable, ready for occasions when they wanted to remind the world of their importance.
The ash buried them. Time erased them. The chariot remembers them.
Four wheels that have not turned in nearly two thousand years. Bronze that has not gleamed in Mediterranean sun since emperors ruled in Rome. Wood that has not creaked under the weight of passengers since Vesuvius was just a mountain that sometimes rumbled.
The volcano preserved what it destroyed. The ash saved what it buried.
And now, at last, the chariot has emerged from the darkness.
Still standing. Still intact. Still waiting to tell the story of a family that died when the mountain woke up, and a vehicle that survived to carry their memory into a future they could never have imagined.

06/05/2026

In the Early 1980s, a Pennsylvania Bear Biologist Named Gary Alt Carried an Orphaned Black Bear Cub Into a Winter Den, Placed It Beside a Sleeping Wild Mother, and Walked Out. The Mother Woke Up in Spring Raising One More Cub Than She Had Given Birth To. She Never Knew the Difference. Then Alt Tried It Outside the Den. The Mother Smelled the Strange Cub. And She Killed It. That Failure Is What Led to the Vicks VapoRub.
The problem was ancient. The solution came from a drugstore.
Every bear state faces the same dilemma. A mother bear gets hit by a car. Gets shot during hunting season. Gets killed in a management action. And leaves behind cubs too young to survive alone.
The standard options were captive rearing or euthanasia. Gary Alt wanted a third option. He wanted to give the orphan to a wild mother who was already raising her own.
The biology said it should not work.
A black bear mother identifies her cubs by scent. She licks them after birth, and the chemical signature of her saliva marks them as hers. If she encounters a cub that does not carry her scent, she treats it as a threat or an intruder.
Outside the den, in the active season, a mother bear that smells a strange cub will reject it. In some cases, she kills it.
Alt learned this the hard way.
He was the black bear biologist for the Pennsylvania Game Commission for twenty-seven years. During that time, he expanded the state's bear population from roughly three thousand to nearly fifteen thousand animals. He understood bears better than almost anyone alive.
But understanding did not prevent tragedy.
When he tried placing an orphan with an active mother in spring, the scent mismatch triggered exactly the response that evolution had designed. The mother identified the stranger. The mother eliminated the threat. The orphan died.
Alt went back to the dens.
A hibernating mother is in a reduced metabolic state. Her senses are dampened. Her aggression is lower. Her discrimination between her own cubs and a stranger's is weaker. The same mother who would kill an intruder in May would accept it without question in February.
Alt tested the theory by opening winter dens, placing orphaned cubs beside sleeping mothers alongside their existing litters, and backing away. The mothers did not wake. The orphans nestled against warm bodies that were not their biological mothers but would become their functional ones.
When the families emerged in spring, the mothers raised all their cubs. The orphans had been absorbed into families that had no idea they contained strangers.
The technique worked reliably in the den.
But orphaned cubs do not always appear in January. Sometimes they show up in April or May, after the mothers are already active and mobile and operating with full sensory awareness. Alt needed a way to introduce orphans to awake, alert mothers without triggering rejection or killing.
He tested two approaches.
In the first, he treed a mother bear and her cubs using dogs, released the orphan into the trees with the biological cubs, and kept the mother separated from all the cubs for two to seven hours. The extended contact between the orphan and the biological cubs during separation appeared to transfer enough shared scent that when the mother returned, she accepted the group without identifying the newcomer.
It worked. But it was complicated.
The second method was simpler. And stranger.
Alt sedated the mother, smeared Vicks VapoRub in her nostrils, and placed the orphan with her while she was unconscious.
When the sedation wore off, the menthol overwhelmed her olfactory system. She could not distinguish the orphan's scent from her own cubs' scent because she could not smell anything except eucalyptus and camphor.
By the time the Vicks wore off, the orphan had been in contact with the mother and siblings long enough that the scent lines had blurred. The chemical signatures had mixed. The stranger had become family.
The orphans were accepted.
Alt refined the technique further. He found that simply rubbing Vicks VapoRub on the orphan cub, without sedating the mother, was enough to inhibit aggression during introduction. The menthol on the cub's fur masked the foreign scent long enough for the mother to begin treating it as part of the group.
A two-dollar tube of cold medicine from a drugstore became a wildlife conservation tool.
One Pennsylvania mother that supplemented her diet with garbage raised six cubs through the summer, including two orphans Alt had placed with her. Six cubs from a single mother is an extraordinary litter by any measure.
The mother did not distinguish between the four she had birthed and the two that a biologist had carried in from somewhere else and smeared with mentholated ointment.
To her, they were all hers. Because she could not smell the difference. Because the Vicks had bought enough time for bonding to override biology.
The technique spread.
Lynn Rogers, the Minnesota bear biologist whose decades of research have shaped our understanding of black bear behavior, confirmed and expanded on Alt's work. Rogers published a framework describing options for orphaned cubs, noting that mothers with cubs would readily accept strange cubs in dens and sometimes outside dens under certain conditions.
The den introduction, Rogers wrote, was the cleanest option. The mother's reduced state during hibernation made acceptance almost automatic.
But when hibernation was not available, there was always Vicks.
The technique is still used today.
In February 2020, the Virginia Department of Game and Inland Fisheries placed an orphaned cub with a wild foster mother nursing three cubs of her own. The orphan had been rescued by a dog that carried it home in its mouth. Without intervention, it would have died.
Virginia's wildlife center maintains GPS-collared female bears specifically so they can locate denning mothers when an orphan needs placement. Conservation officers track the collar, listen for cub sounds in the den, assess whether the mother has capacity for an additional cub, and make the placement.
The mothering instinct is just very strong in most animals, wildlife biologist Bill Bassinger told reporters. Generally, most females will take the young back, even after it has been handled by humans.
The difference between instinct and rejection is scent. The difference between acceptance and death is timing.
A black bear mother that would kill a strange cub on sight in May will adopt it without question in February if you put it beside her while she is sleeping.
A black bear mother that would kill a strange cub on sight in May will adopt it without question in May if you rub enough Vicks VapoRub on the cub to overwhelm her nose for an hour.
The difference between a dead orphan and a living one is timing, temperature, and a two-dollar tube of menthol ointment from a drugstore.
Gary Alt figured that out in the mountains of northeastern Pennsylvania with a sedated bear, a jar of Vicks, and an orphaned cub that had nowhere else to go.
The technique he developed has been used in bear states across the country for forty years.
Every spring, somewhere in the Appalachians or the Rockies or the North Woods, a wildlife officer opens a den, places a cub beside a sleeping mother, and walks away knowing that the mother will wake up in April and count one more mouth to feed without ever questioning where it came from.
Every spring, somewhere in bear country, a biologist smears Vicks VapoRub on an orphan and watches a wild mother accept a stranger as her own because her nose cannot tell her otherwise.
The science is simple. The ex*****on is careful. The result is survival.
Orphaned cubs that would have died now grow up with wild mothers. Cubs that would have been raised in captivity now learn to forage and hibernate and navigate the world from bears who know how.
All because a biologist in Pennsylvania watched an orphan die and refused to accept that outcome.
All because he reached for a jar of cold medicine and asked a question that no one had asked before.
What if we just confused her nose?
The answer saved thousands of cubs.
And it cost about two dollars per life.

Address

1109 Redbud Drive Manhattan
New York, NY
11357

Telephone

+17124444567

Website

http://www.JayvendeLuca.com/

Alerts

Be the first to know and let us send you an email when Jayven DeLuca posts news and promotions. Your email address will not be used for any other purpose, and you can unsubscribe at any time.

Jayven DeLuca

06/06/2026

06/06/2026

06/05/2026

06/05/2026

Address

Telephone

Website

Alerts

Shortcuts

Share