Next thing you know, she’s climbing in to give a demonstration of how a body fits into the thing. She wriggles her way in, knees hugged to her chest. “The way it softens the light. The warmth, the coziness. It’s like a womb. In death, we are reborn.”

Rubber booter Barb gasps. This is the magical mystery she’s been waiting for. Even through the translucent shell of the pod, I can see Wendy’s feelings streaming out in ribbons of crystalline awe, hopeful sunny yellow, and lavender joy. She pops her head out, smiles straight at big ol’ Tooker and says, “We can order it in various sizes to accommodate all body types!”

Everybody oohs and aahs for a few minutes, and the room is crackling with the neons of novelty and the soft pastels of hope and faith. Sure, it’s no Gem-Mortalization, but it beats the shit out of becoming a slab of chemical-soaked cold cuts in a Cadillac casket, or a pile of greasy soot in a glorified Mason jar. Plus there’s the buy-local, eco-friendly, stick-it-to-the-capitalist-man angle.

But of course, the devil is in the details. Wendy and Gyaltso need a good piece of land. They also need ten grand in a trust fund, to make it over the first bureaucratic hurdle of setting up the business. And finally, they’ll need a steady stream of bereaved renegades who can shell out to have their loved ones grow trees of life from eggs of death and are willing to tell Ciad Mille Failte Funeral Services Inc. to Ciad Mille Fáilche Áielf. Preferably in actual Gaelic.

They give us the soft sell, so as not to thoroughly taint the trail we’ve all just blazed through our own hardships and hang-ups. Proceeds from Wendy’s death doula services and Gyaltso’s book go to the trust fund. They ask us to keep an eye out for available land. And to think and talk to our loved ones about this exciting new option in the death and dying care services. And somehow, despite my ongoing preoccupation with my own ending, when I picture myself in relation to all this, it isn’t curled up and buried inside one of those things. But rather: Hihowareyatoday. I’m Crow Fortune. Marketing and Communications Director for Crann Na Beatha, Cape Breton’s first and only eco-burial memory forest.

Mama’s voice eggs me on. Remember Crow, those who get, get! And I don’t even know what the Jesus that actually means, but Mama always said it, and it sounds like encouragement. So, I’ll take it.

“I’m good cop, you’re quiet, not-acting-crazy cop,” I ­remind Char as she fidgets and twitches in the shotgun seat of Peggy’s car. I probably should have come alone, but I thought it wise to have a co-pilot. Someone to back up my story about why I’m driving without a licence if the cops stop us. Someone to witness the persuasion miracle I’m gearing up to work via a combination of business acumen and squirrelly vision insight. Or, someone to beat Sarah Spenser up if she’s really nasty to me when I diplomatically lay out the case for Spenser Mining Inc. partnering up with Crann Na Beatha. Or when I tell her I’m her sister.