Margot Cominsky stood around the corner from the funeral parlor. She’d tried standing right outside the door, hoping for a breath of air that didn’t reek of carnations, but she was immediately taken for the welcoming committee, and strangers kept hugging her and cheek-kissing her and grabbing her hand. “We’re so sorry.” “So young.” “Too soon.” What was she supposed to do, thank them for their profound and original words? We’re all fucking sad, people. Look at where we are.