I grabbed the nearly empty kippah box and went into the storage room to get more. I didn’t think men who borrowed them meant to take them home after funerals, but it happened a lot. Dad was always ordering more to restock our supply.

When I came back out into the hallway, my eyes went to the closed doors of the preparation room. The ladies were in there, doing the tahara. Other than the sounds of squeaky shoes on the floor—like in the school gym during basketball—it was quiet. I wasn’t surprised that I didn’t hear voices—the rules say you can’t chat or tell stories because it’s disrespectful to the person who has died. Maybe because they can’t join in your conversation. I’m not sure if that is the reason, but I do know you can only talk when you need to or to say the special prayers, including one where you ask forgiveness in case you disrespect the person by accident.

So while the silence feels a bit creepy, the process is really respectful. My mom and the other volunteers take their jobs very seriously. They follow all the rules no matter what. They never make fun of the dead or say anything bad.

It was too bad all the jerks at my school—like Miri and Sasha—didn’t follow those rules. I shook my head to push them out of my mind. I had more important things to focus on. I was learning how to be a good funeral director by getting a better understanding of grief. I knew I was a good listener, so I would able to help the families, like my mom did. But would I be able to do the other stuff, the preparation of the bodies? Or would I be too scared? Too emotional? Maybe even too grossed out? I mean, I didn’t even like getting a paper cut. How would I handle it if someone had died after a bad accident like Oren’s parents had? What would that tahara be like? What if—

“What’s wrong?” Dad asked from behind me. He startled me so badly that I squeaked and nearly dropped the basket of kippahs.

“Oh!” I said. “I was just zoned out, thinking.”

“C’mon.” He nodded to the front of the funeral home. I fell into step beside him. “Thinking about what?”

I sighed as we walked around the corner. “Taharas. Like, what happens if it’s…you know, bad. Like if there’s…like a car accident.”

He didn’t answer right away. “You mean, like with Oren’s parents?”

I nodded. Even though I was nervous to hear about them, I still wanted details. Oren did too—he kept insisting he wanted to know what happened to them.

Before he said anything else, Dad led me to his office and pointed at the seat in front of his desk.

“What exactly do you want to know?” he asked once he had settled into his big leather chair.

I took a couple of breaths and looked down at my hands. “Is…is it…gross?”