Hell, for a person whose ashes didn’t even fill an urn? The whole concept was lost on me, but I was about to find out. A few days after the fire, the chaplain at the hospital offered to do a service after he asked about funeral arrangements and I pretty much scratched my head in answer. Clay died with no money in the bank, and his secret whiskey stash went up with the rest of the trailer. Since I had a whopping forty-two dollars in my wallet, having a funeral service inside of a church was out. So much for not-for-profit . . . The chaplain had suggested holding the service outside, at a location of my choosing—maybe somewhere I had fond memories of Clay and I being together. When my answer was another head scratching, the chaplain gave up and suggested a spot by the river. Worked for me. So long as it was quick and to the point, I was fine with Clay’s funeral being held there. It was almost one o’clock, and I was going to be late. I’d pulled into the public access parking lot fifteen minutes ago, but I couldn’t pull myself out of my truck to make the short hike to where the chaplain was waiting for me.
