She nodded toward the back of the hearse. “He’s in there. We’re taking him to the funeral home in the morning. He always wanted to go in style.”
“Sorry,” she’d said. “I forget how low these things are.”
Now Marcus was nineteen, six-foot-three, and standing on the other side of that same window. He worked the 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. shift at a twenty-four-hour Burger Barn, and the drive-thru window was his portal to a strange, liminal America.
That explanation lasted about fifteen years.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
