I folded it once, flap side in, and slipped it into my uniform pocket.

Not the trash.

My pocket.

The carpet in the office at Henderson Funeral Home was thick navy wool that smelled faintly of lemon polish and old cedar.

Mr.

Henderson picked up his brass pen and unclipped the top page on his wooden clipboard.

“We need to choose the casket model before we can finish the service sheet for Tuesday, Ona.”

“The plain steel one with the silver handles will be fine,” I said.