A very tall, very skinny white man entered the funeral home. “What a night!” he said from the doorway. “The Almighty is really testing our mettle, isn’t he?” He came down the corridor toward us carrying a large duffel bag. He wasn’t wearing a hat, and his curly, dark hair was damp and very windblown. His smile was broad and cheerful, and his cheeks glowed rosily. As the newcomer approached us, I wiped at my eyes where tears had just gathered. “Please go now,” I said to Lopez in a choked voice. His face creased with concern, doubt, and regret. “Look, why don’t I call you and we can—” “No,” I said tightly. “If you’re serious about—about this . . .” “Esther . . .” “Don’t make it worse,” I said faintly, trying to control my voice. “Please.” “I never wanted . . .”
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