“Is he heading back to the store?” she asked.

“I think so,” I said.

“Where are we going now?” she asked quietly.

“There’s one more stop we have to make,” I said.

We walked down to my 2004 Buick LeSabre, parked by the meter.

The engine caught with its familiar deep rumble, the exhaust rattling against the frame as we idled at the corner.

We drove six miles north to Oak Creek Cemetery and turned in through the iron gates, where oak trees were dropping dry yellow leaves across the gravel drive.

We parked at the edge of Section B, where the grass was thin and stiff with frost.