“Julian, that paper is a bill for a child’s casket,” I said.

“It’s an estimate,” he said, his voice climbing sharply in the cramped garage.

“Who’s the casket you’re ordering for?” I asked.

“Mr.

Henderson down the road asked me to look up prices for his family’s planning,” he said.

“Mr.

Henderson passed away two years ago, Julian,” I said.

Julian stared down at the paper in his fist, folded it into four tight squares, and stuffed it deep into his pants pocket.