Her face was also Kathleen Blanchet’s face, the deceased woman I helped serve at the inaugural meeting of the Pallbearers Club. This was no mere hey-I-saw-someone-at-the-mall-who-looked-just-like-you doppelgänger resemblance. This was a reveal. This was revelation. Had I been able to blink my eyes and transport back to the first October morning in the funeral home, this was the face that would’ve greeted me. Mercy and Kathleen were the same person. (At the writing of this almost a quarter of century later, I am as sure of that equivalence as I was in the ruinous moment of discovery. Though in mornings after and the years between, as you will see, I allowed for skepticism, possibility, and rationalization. But not anymore.)

This is fucking RIDICULOUS. I fixed the title page for you with angry cross-outs.