What did it say about the sad state of her life that she was at her father’s funeral and all she could think about was her sex tape? Yes, she knew it wasn’t a “tape” but an infinite network of links that popped up right when potential employers were searching her presence online. Nasty Nora had made the rounds for about two years after her boyfriend posted it. But what really immortalized her was the freeze-frame shot of her grimace after her boyfriend asked if she’d “finished.”

People attached her face to all kinds of dubious truth.

Did you remember to defrost the chicken? Nora’s Face.

Does this dress look okay? Nora’s Face.

Her mentions would subside until someone rediscovered the origin of the meme, then the video would trend again. This had been going on for about eight years now. It was all calming down until HBO did an explosive expose on the adult film industry and highlighted her video in the rise of amateur “disruptors.” It was exhausting, and why she had to get out of this dangerous crush of people.

This was a sizable crowd for such a private man. The enormous poster of him, positioned on an easel, looked more like a shrine to seasonings. A garland of thyme and baby’s breath draped elegantly around the photo. He’d founded Dash of Love Seafood Seasoning right here in Maryland, so it fit that they would memorialize him with mountains of Old Bay, crab hammers, and hot sauce crammed like Tetris pieces on a slick wooden table. Nora searched her bag and huffed in victory when she found salt and pepper packets from a month ago. She moved through the line and solemnly added it to the teetering tower. She swore she saw her dad’s eyes twinkle. He looked a lot like her little sister Yanne in this picture. With his sandy skin, smooth hair gelled back, and even the myopic greenish-brown eyes that kept her younger sister in prescription glasses since she was five. Nora should be more broken up. In fact, she should be throwing herself over the coffin and screaming “Take me instead!” or “Not my daddy!” but in truth he’d been a hard man to know, and a part of her felt like that was on purpose.

Her phone buzzed in her hand.

Finally.

“I’ve been calling you for hours, Yanne.” Nora tried not to make her voice pleading, “Mom’s acting real . . . strange and this place is weird.” The funeral home looked like the inside of Scarlett O’Hara’s home, right down to the velvet green drapes. Her mom was teary-eyed and deferential to everyone she met, as if she wasn’t the love of her father’s life. She had insisted on sunglasses and a scarf even inside.