Brian looks at me wide-eyed in a way that indicates he won’t take “No, thanks. I’m good” for an answer. While I want to—and insist that I will—do the heavy lifting myself, what’s the harm in outsourcing the cringeworthy lifting?

“Call Robert Hancock,” I say, as if he’s Siri.

“Happy to. But who’s that?”

I grab the letter the insurance agency sent with the urn and slide it across our bistro table. “I want you to ask them what they think I should do.”

Brian is focused, like it’s a med-school midterm, as he reads the letter over. I can bet that he wasn’t expecting my task would be to call the urn people, and I’m waiting for him to put the paper down and explain to me how this is really something I should do. But after he finishes scanning, he promptly takes out his phone, dials the number, and says, “I’ll put them on speaker.”

“It’s a stellar morning at Robert Hancock Insurance Brokers. My name is Kenya. How may I assist you?” The rep is very clearly reading a script because I can’t imagine anything could be stellar about the job she has.

“Yes, hi,” Brian says, then clears his throat. “I’m calling on behalf of my...client?” He looks at me and I shrug my shoulders. I have no clue where he is going with this.

“Yes, my client,” he continues firmly. “Her name is Charlotte Rosen and her late husband’s remains were delivered to her apartment last weekend.”

“Yes, sir. This is in regards to the Pala Mausoleum fire, correct?”

“Yes, exactly. That’s the one.”

Was there another?

“How can I help you?” Kenya asks.

“Well, we... I mean she...was wondering where the best place to send them back to might be?”

At this point, I’m nervously chipping off my peach-colored gel manicure, which is leaving behind flakes on the ground all around me, including in the fur on Leno’s back.

“I’m afraid I can’t speak with you about this without the consent of Ms. Rosen herself.”

“I’m here,” I blurt out. “This is Charlotte speaking.”

I spatter off my Social Security number and mother’s maiden name and soon enough Kenya accepts my identity.

“Thank you for confirming, ma’am. It’d be my pleasure to connect you to a grief counselor at this time,” she says. “As a reminder, they are standing by free of charge for your benefit for the next two weeks.”

I grab the phone from Brian’s hands and say loud and clearly: “I don’t need a grief counselor.”

Debatable, I know. But another agent standing by to read another flowery script won’t be of any help to me. I need real advice. It’s go time.

“Well, then, how may I assist you exactly?”

“I want to know where I’m supposed to put him now. Now that the mausoleum has been destroyed and I sort of thought this whole thing was a done deal five years ago, where else can he go?”

“Um, uh...” It is evident that Kenya is about to go off script for the first time in her career. “Ma’am, the mausoleum burned down. So where you store your husband’s remains at this point is a personal decision. One that would be entirely up to you and your loved ones.”