Page 22 of Never Forget
"That sounds about right."
"She asked about you, actually. When I told her about Jack." His voice quieted. "Said she was sorry. That he was one of the good ones."
My throat tightened. "He was."
The conversation drifted after that. Nothing heavy, just the kind of talk that fills the space when no one has the energy for silence. Mark mentioned a restaurant he'd noticed on the drive from the airport. Sam pointed out a new coffee shop where an old bookstore used to be. Small things. Safe things.
Sam turned off the main road. The building was white with black shutters, tasteful in that way funeral homes always were—designed to look like a place you might actually want to visit.
I took a breath and tried to steady myself.
The funeral home smelled like lilies and carpet cleaner.
A woman in a gray suit walked us through options I didn't want to think about. Oak or mahogany. Satin or velvet. Brass handles or bronze. Every question felt obscene.
Mark's arm was around my shoulders. I leaned into him, grateful for the weight of it.
"Classic. Nothing fancy," Sam said. "Jack would've hated fancy."
He was right. I nodded, and the woman wrote it down.
We spent an hour in a back office writing the obituary with Sam and I passing sentences back and forth while Mark rubbed slow circles on my back. How Jack dedicated his life to protecting others. How he was a loving father, a devoted brother, a loyal friend. When the woman printed the draft and slid it across the desk—Jack Donovan, 31, of Havensworth, SouthCarolina—I stared at the words until they blurred, and Mark's hand found mine under the table.
Then photos for the memorial display. Sam pulled one from the pile—Jack in his firefighter uniform, the day he graduated from the academy.
"That one. He'd want that one."
By late afternoon, we'd made every decision there was to make. Casket, flowers, obituary, photos. The woman shook our hands and said she'd be in touch about final details.
We climbed back into Sam's truck. Havensworth slid past the windows as we headed home. The oak trees the same as ever, draped in Spanish moss, indifferent to everything happening beneath them.
We pulled into the driveway as the sun started to set.
One day down. More to come.
Sam cut the engine but didn't move to get out. The three of us sat there for a moment, the truck ticking as it cooled.
"Thanks for today, Sam." My voice came out rough.
He shook his head. "It's for Jack."
He held my gaze a second longer than he needed to, and something shifted in my chest before I made myself look away.
"Stay for dinner," I said. "It's the least we can do."
He hesitated. Glanced at Mark in the rearview mirror.
"Stay," Mark said. "Please. We'd like that."
Sam looked at me, then nodded.
A neighbor had dropped off a casserole. The first of many, probably. That's how Havensworth worked. Death meant casseroles and covered dishes and more food than anyone could eat.
We sat around the kitchen table, the four of us plus Rosie in her high chair. The conversation stayed light. Safe. Loretta told a story about her grandson's first steps. Mark asked Sam about the fire station, and Sam gave easy answers about shift schedules and the guys he worked with.
No one mentioned Jack directly. It was too raw. But he was there in the empty chair, in the photos on the fridge, in the way we all kept not looking at each other for too long.
After dinner, when the table was cleared and the dishes put away, Mark excused himself to shower. "Long day," he said, squeezing my shoulder. "I'll be upstairs."
