The garage smelled of lawnmower gas, damp cardboard boxes, and cut pine.

My umbrella wasn’t hanging on the nail by the door frame where Julian usually kept it.

I walked over to the long plywood workbench beneath the dusty side window.

Lying open on a stack of old property tax notices was a printed receipt from a regional funeral supply warehouse in Canton.

I held the sheet up to the gray light from the window.

The heading at the top said Tri-State Funeral Supply, with an order date four days earlier.