Three Days Before the Casket Was Delivered, My Son Asked Me to Sign a Document

The door shook in its frame.

I dug my heels into the linoleum and heard the phone slide against my ear.

The brass key sat in my cardigan pocket, sharp against my hip, and I kept my hand over it so it wouldn’t slip out.

“Ma’am, what’s your address?” the dispatcher asked.

I repeated it slowly and spelled out Miller.

Chloe’s hair smelled of baby shampoo with something sour beneath it.

The washer clicked into the rinse cycle, and the drum banged against the wall.