The parking lot was full, so Walt turned onto the side street that flanked the funeral home. He eased his car to the curb and pulled himself from the driver’s seat. It took longer than he wanted to wrestle on his suit coat, his left arm was not yet following the commands from his brain, and he was happy to be without an audience. When he pulled past the funeral home he had seen a slew of colleagues out front. He didn’t need the razzing he would have taken had they seen him struggling with his coat. And if his fellow agents had managed to avoid the friendly jeering, the other reaction would have been worse—pity. This was better, alone on a side street as he fought with his suit coat. He finally righted himself with a deep breath that brought a stabbing pain to his chest—a symptom Dr. Marshfield warned would take weeks of pulmonary therapy to resolve.

Once he had himself settled, he looked at the funeral home and considered his options. He could walk around to the front of the building and into the den of his fellow agents, where he was sure to spend too much time saying hello and accepting their wishes for a speedy recovery. Or, he could skate through the side door and sneak into the procession line, keep his eyes down and avoid anyone he knew until he reached Jason’s family. There, he’d offer his condolences to Jason’s father and tell the man what a stellar partner his son had been for the last three years. Hug Jason’s mother and introduce himself to Jason’s wife, telling them both how sorry he was for their loss. All the time he’d fight off his survivor’s guilt, hope he didn’t sweat through his suit coat, and make a stealth exit before the bandage on his neck grew red from the seeping wound it covered.