Owen wanted the name to mean something else. He wanted it to mean justice .
: TikTok and other social media platforms feature numerous tributes using hashtags like #LLOC and #FlyHighOwen, remembering him for his kindness and bright smile. LinkedIn +6 Owen is survived by his parents and his twin sister, Amelia. His family continues to use their platform to normalize conversations about drug safety and to prevent similar tragedies in other communities. LinkedIn +1 Would you like more information on the
The family has partnered with organizations like Song for Charlie to deliver fact-based programs at schools, including Chaminade College Preparatory and Immaculate Heart, reaching thousands of students. Their advocacy emphasizes that:
In the wake of this tragedy, Owen’s parents, , and his twin sister, Amelia Brandano , founded the #OwenForever and #NoRandomPills campaigns. Their work focuses on educating students and parents about the dangers of illicitly obtained prescription pills, which often contain undetectable amounts of fentanyl. owen brandano
There are individuals with similar names on professional networking sites (like LinkedIn) working in fields such as real estate, sales, or local business, but they generally do not have encyclopedia-style articles written about them.
Harlan Cress took the stand. He was polished, confident, and lying through his perfect teeth. No, he said, he had no idea the mill was a haven for squatters. Yes, he had plans to redevelop. Eventually.
The judge, an old woman with spectacles and a surprising fondness for Sal’s asphalt work on her own street, took three long minutes. Then she dismissed the case. With prejudice. And she referred Harlan Cress to the city ethics board for a separate matter involving zoning variances. Owen wanted the name to mean something else
Transactions often occur on common apps, making drugs more accessible than ever to minors.
Cress blinked. “I… that’s not relevant.”
The Brandano family's efforts have extended to legislative support and community events. They have participated in awareness days at major venues like Camden Yards to reach a broader audience. Their story has also been used to support the , which aims to require public colleges to stock opioid overdose rescue kits. Through their courage, Owen’s legacy has transitioned from a private family tragedy to a vital public safety initiative that empowers families to have honest, life-saving conversations. LinkedIn +6 Owen is survived by his parents
Miguel was seventeen, with eyes the color of bruised plums and hands that trembled like leaves. He wasn’t a thief. He was a squatter. The mill had a dry basement, and Miguel had been sleeping there for three weeks, running from a foster home that felt less like a home and more like a sentence. The crowbar? He’d found it. He was trying to pry open a rusted electrical box to charge his dead phone. The duct tape? Holding his sneaker together.
“Kid’s sneakers are shot,” Sal grunted. He pulled a wad of cash from his wallet—the kind of cash that smelled like diesel fuel and honest sweat—and pressed it into Miguel’s hand. “There’s a shoe store on West Broadway. Tell ’em Sal sent you. They’ll set you right.”
So he became a public defender. Sal didn’t understand. “You defend thieves,” he’d grumble, scraping gravel from his boots on Owen’s welcome mat. “Brandanos build things. We don’t clean up after the people who tear them down.”
As little as 2mg of fentanyl—roughly the size of a few grains of salt—can be fatal. Impact and Advocacy
Outside the courthouse, rain had turned the streets to mirrors. Miguel Reyes stood shivering in a borrowed coat, his mother—who had driven six hours after Owen found her number—weeping into his hair.