“So...what do you think?” he asks, as if I’m supposed to have an opinion about a mound of dirt.

“I think I forgot my sunglasses,” I say, putting my hand above my eyes to shield against the bright rays. “And also a blanket.” Forget grass stains, my pants are going to get destroyed by this mud.

“Blanket? Anyhow, this, my friend, is the future site of that five-story mausoleum you were googling at Alfred’s. After you told me about it, I looked it up and saw that the Los Angeles City Council approved plans to add thirty thousand crypts. Which sounds like a lot, I know, but then I read on and saw that 75 percent of them were already accounted for. People are buying up the plots like Elvis is going to be moved here. Anyhow, at nearly ninety thousand square feet, this is going to be the most iconic resting place in the entire county. Not to mention, completely bombproof. Wildfires? What wildfires?”

“Well, thanks for the tour of a future grave site,” I say. “Any other fun facts you’d like to share?”

Brian releases his fingers from the fencing and grabs my palms instead.

“I bought a plot,” he says with a smile that’s expanding at the speed of light.

“Come again? You...what?” I shake my head. Clearly I’m having trouble following all of this.

“Okay, well, I didn’t buy it yet, per se. But it’s on hold for me if I want it. I mean, you definitely don’t have to put him here, Char. But I know you were interested in it, and I wanted to act fast.”

“Interested? It was just a Google search result that I hadn’t even clicked on yet,” I say.

He steamrolls on. I don’t think he’s even heard me.

“And if this is going to be the spot, I didn’t want you to get ripped off. People are going to end up reselling the crypts on the black market for much more than asking. I just need to let the guy know by Monday. Think you can decide by then?”

I look over my shoulder once again to confirm what I’m seeing: piles of dirt, a wide-open field, and no one working.

“When...when is this thing even going to be done?”

“Uhh, I think the website said a year? I bet it’ll be closer to ten months if they’ve got their shit together.”

I don’t need a program to run the math on this completion date. I’m caught between showing my appreciation for someone who has, in theory, solved my greatest problem, and running for the hills—perhaps the dirt ones behind me—because I didn’t ask for this and I’m afraid showing any hint of ungratefulness is going to create even more of a mess.

What I think is the sound of a bulldozer backing up is actually the beeping of a pager Brian has clipped onto his pants. I didn’t realize doctors carried pagers anymore, the noise is so foreign.