Raney pushed him up the zigzag ramp in a borrowed wheelchair. They arrived so early the sanctuary looked bare, the sparse flower arrangements like lost tropical islands in the chilly white room. Raney told herself that her resolve to be seated and collected early had nothing to do with Bo. She refused to scan the faces gradually filling the pews behind her, tried to concentrate on the folded service program in her hands. It wasn’t a given that he would come. It wasn’t a given that he was living anywhere near Seattle, or the United States, or, for that matter, that he cared enough about his aunt and uncle to come to their funeral even if he lived next door. At the top of the program page above the scripture from John 11:26 there was a sketch of two entwined angels, which, Raney guessed, were supposed to be Mr. and Mrs. Hardy smiling down on everyone from the hereafter. It had been years since Raney had said two words to either of them, but she for sure knew that neither had been anywhere close to angelic in their lifetimes.
