Rose placed a stack of death certificates on my desk, adding to the never-ending pile of documents for me to initial or sign. She was dressed this day in a smart navy blue pants suit and bright purple blouse, her shoes, typically, black leather lace-ups for walking.

Rose was well past retirement age, although it didn’t show in her face, which was regal and subtly made up. But her hair had gotten finer and had turned completely white, while arthritis nibbled at her fingers, lower back, and hips, making it increasingly uncomfortable for her to sit at her desk and take care of me as she had from my first day at this job.

“It’s almost six,” she said, looking kindly at me.

I glanced up at the clock as I began to scan paperwork and sign my name.

“I have a dinner at the church,” she diplomatically let me know.

“That’s nice,” I said, frowning as I read. “Damn it, how many times do I have to tell Dr. Carmichael that you don’t sign out a death as cardiac arrest. Jesus, everybody dies of cardiac arrest. You die, your heart quits, right? And he’s done the respiratory arrest number too, no matter how many times I’ve amended his certificates.”

I sighed in annoyance.

“He’s been the M.E. in Halifax County for how many years?” I continued my tirade. “Twenty-five at least?”

“Dr. Scarpetta, don’t forget he’s an obstetrician. And an ancient one at that,” Rose reminded me. “A nice man who’s not capable of learning anything new. He still types his reports on an old manual Royal, flying capitals and all. And the reason I mentioned the church dinner is, I’m supposed to be there in ten minutes.”

She paused, regarding me over her reading glasses.

“But I can stay if you want me to,” she added.

“I’ve got some things to do,” I told her. “And the last thing I would think of is to interfere with a church dinner. Yours or anyone’s. I’m always in enough trouble with God as is.”

“Then I’ll say good night,” Rose said. “My dictations are in your basket. I’ll see you in the morning.”

After her footsteps vanished down the corridor, I was enveloped by silence broken only by the sounds of paper I was moving around on my desk. I thought of Benton several times and warded off my desire to call him, because I was not ready to relax, or maybe I simply did not want to feel human quite yet. It is, after all, hard to feel like a normal person with normal emotions when one is about to boil human remains in what is essentially a large soup pot. A few minutes after seven, I followed the corridor to the decomposition room, which was two doors down and across from the cooler.