Chapter 5

Why are all mortuaries the same? They smell the same. They look the same. They feel the same. Zeke hated that smell, hated that feeling, hated being around death. Twice before he sat in the same stiff, formal sofas and waited for the same abnormally soft-speaking personnel to take him to view his dearly departed. His mother, when he was not yet eleven, and his father, when he was not yet twenty-one. Why did everybody leave him right before his birthday?

Now he sat in the parking lot of Ashenbrenner’s Funeral Home with a black marble urn filled with Luther’s remains. No casket. No funeral. No burial. Nothing. Did anyone cry for this man’s death? I’m so sorry, Luther. Everybody deserves someone to grieve for them, someone to—miss them. I never knew you.

He stared at the urn. “What am I supposed to do?” He pursed his lips.

The mortician’s words echoed in his mind. “There are limitations to what you can do with Mr. Clayton’s ashes, should you wish to sprinkle them somewhere. You will need to check with that location. Some places, such as a botanical garden, for instance, no longer allow human remains to be distributed on their grounds.”