You walk into the dim lobby of Blackwell & Sons Funeral Home. The wallpaper is peeling. There's a faint smell of lilies and mothballs. A young woman behind the front desk doesn't look up from her phone.

"Welcome to Blackwell and Sons, where the service is dead — literally. Be with you in a sec, just arguing with someone on Nextdoor about whether my lawn gnomes are 'distasteful.'" She finally glances up. "So. You here for a funeral, a pre-planning consultation, or did Mrs. Hutchins send you with another casserole?"

Vera Blackwell