Well, okay then. Maybe not all that delicately. I don’t want to take advantage here, but if she’s in all business mode, then I’ll use it. Opening up my company’s secure web portal, I log in and click around a bit and get to the screen I need to start a claim. “Mrs. Horne, your husband’s name, please?”

“Richard Horne, Dick.”

Uh, what? Did she just call her husband a dick? Or did she just call me a dick?

Wait, no . . . that must be his nickname. Richard . . . Dick. I hope so or this might be even more awkward than usual. “Okay. Do you have a policy number, social security number, or his birthdate?” I ask quickly. “So we can pull up the policy.”

She goes on to give me all the answers to the questions I ask, waiting patiently as I fill in every blank on the computer’s form.

But this is like no Q&A I’ve ever done. The longer it goes on, the less Mrs. Horne looks like she’s in shock and more like she’s . . . bored. She keeps looking at her phone, picking at her nails, and once, I think I see her yawn out of the corner of my eye. Then again, I’ve seen all sorts of reactions to death. Insomnia is one of them, and maybe that’s all this is.

“Do you have a copy of the certificate of death?” I ask carefully.

“What?” she replies, as though she’s completely forgotten why she’s even here or what we’re talking about. It’s expected. Everyone handles death differently. Some go numb or sink into depression, others feel relief, and a small fraction even experience a sense of vengeance, depending on the circumstances.

Mrs. Horne appears to feel none of those things. I might as well be asking about her car’s extended warranty for all the interest and care she’s showing. Again, not unseen but definitely unusual.

“The death certificate?” I ask again.

“Oh, yeah, here you go.” She pulls a piece of folded paper from between her boobs and hands it across the desk. I do not want to touch boob paper. There’s bound to be sweat, germs, and funk on it.

But I don’t keep tongs or gloves in my desk, having never needed them before. I take the paper reluctantly and spread it out on the desk, promising myself a nice, long handwash with hot water, loads of soap, and some gel hand cleanser.

I peruse the typed information in the upper fields, making sure that I’ve spelled everything correctly on my own computerized form. Everything’s good, and it’s not until I get to the bottom of the form that my own heart races.

It’s signed by Zoey Walker.