“Say it," my mother repeats, voice thin but steady. “Before we let her rest."
Marcus's mouth tightens. “This isn't the moment."
“It's exactly the moment," Joseph says, shifting the urn in his arms. “Or there won't be any other moment you actually look at what you did."
Marcus's gaze latches on the urn. “Open it."
“No," Joseph answers.
“I said—open it." Marcus steps closer, palm out.
“You don't touch her," Joseph says.
“Enough." Marcus's fingers flash. He reaches past Joseph like a thief at a cash drawer.
“Don't—" Joseph twists away. The urn knocks the edge of the plywood plank, skids, slips.
Time fractures.
The wooden lid skims off.
Ash bursts into the light.
A gray plume lifts, light as breath, then breaks, sifting onto the green felt, the plywood, Marcus's polished shoes, the
