I looked at him.

“For what?”

He straightened one cuff.

“For all of us to get through this without making it harder than it needs to be.”

My husband had been buried less than three hours earlier.

Henry had spent most of his adult life building an airline, repairing airplanes, arguing over fuel contracts, checking payroll, and refusing to replace a Buick with more than 190,000 miles on it.

And somehow Michael already sounded as though we were late for the next transaction.