The funeral home men put their hands on the brass handles of the cart, waiting for me to take my place at the head of the center aisle.

“Right this way,” Higgins whispered, stepping forward to lead the procession.

“We’ll go straight out to the parking lot.”

I didn’t turn toward the front doors or the polished bronze handles of the casket.

I turned around and faced the back of the church.

Pastor Higgins caught his breath with a dry little hitch in his throat and stepped half an inch aside, as if he thought I’d gotten lost in the dark.

“Ona, the casket goes first,” he said, reaching for my black sleeve.