Marcus had insisted on moving the body quickly, explaining that Mark had always said he wanted no invasive procedures after death, and Marcus had personally chosen a tiny, independent funeral home owned by an acquaintance of his.

At the time, in my fog, it had seemed like a thoughtful family gesture, a brother handling painful details.

Now, standing beside the casket, it did not feel thoughtful at all.

It felt like control.

I pulled out my phone, and I found a photograph I had taken at the clinic, in the moment they let me say goodbye.

In it, Mark’s wristwatch read 4:13.

Then I looked at the watch still on his wrist, there in the casket.