She stumbled past one of her great aunts — or was it her second cousin? The polished wood of a church pew jammed into her shin as she changed direction; she bit back a scream. Lifting her head again, she breathed deeply and allowed a grim smile when she saw a silvery metal door frame that led out into the hall. Eyes fixed, she marched toward it. Her getaway came to a halt when a wiry, warm hand gripped her shoulder, first startling her, then annoying her. She teetered forward on unsteady toes, her momentum pushing against the hand that held her. “Where are you going?”

She refused to turn around. “Out.”

“Out?”

“Yes. Out,” she repeated, shrugging him off and plucking an invisible hair from her shoulder. She glanced back at him, her eyes smoldering.

“You should be up there with your mother,” her uncle said, giving her his best stern, fatherly look. She narrowed her eyes as he continued. “She's been up there by herself all day.”

“Then why don't you go stand with her?”

He fixed her with a glare that would have caused a lesser girl to back down. “First off, he wasn't my father. Secondly, everyone has been wondering why you're not up there greeting with her. It looks bad.”

She didn't like his attitude, but two could play at that game. “First off, your powers of observation never cease to amaze, and secondly, everyone else can fuck off.”

Before he could come up with an appropriately scathing response, she darted out of reach and dashed through the door, her black velvet skirt brushing against the doorframe as she finally escaped.

There were more mourners out in the hall, but the crowd was considerably thinner. She slowed her steps, carefully surveying the surroundings, looking for someplace that would offer a little solitude. Further down the hall, past the restrooms and the empty Sunday School classrooms, she turned the corner once and arrived at the perfect destination. Just out of reach.

The hallway was wide, probably around ten feet or so, and stretched far back into the bowels of the building. She could barely make out the faint glow of the red EXIT sign at the end. After glancing around to ensure that she was alone, she tossed her purse on the dark blue tile. Several coins escaped from the side pocket, clinking loudly on the floor. They spun and scattered around her feet in a frantic dance. She leaned against the wall, pressing her back flat against the cold whiteness. Gripping her skirt to prevent it from riding up, she slowly slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor.

Much better. The air was cooler, devoid of human breath and therefore much more suitable, in her opinion.

Death always brought out the best in people, she'd often heard, but the thought made her cringe. Even if this was the best these people had to offer, it wasn't good enough. Not for her, and certainly not for her father, a man who deserved more than this, more than being put on display for a parade of long-lost relatives to gawk at.

She leaned over, neatly plucking each runaway coin between her forefinger and thumb, one at a time, before sliding it back into her purse. She held the last coin, a quarter, between her fingers and rolled it over several times, examining it. The barest hint of a smile graced her lips for the first time that day as memories flooded back.

v

The television spoke softly in the background, informing the mass audience of exciting new products and services. Light from her father's brass desk lamp splayed out across the room. The ceiling fan spun a gentle breeze overhead. Papers scraped against each other as he shuffled each stack, placing them carefully on his desk. It was a familiar scene. In all her eleven years, she could recall very few evenings when this scene didn't take place. She stood quietly in the doorway, observing him.

He felt her gaze and looked up, eyebrows raised. “Hey, Izzy.”

She shuffled toward him, her socks making a gentle swishing noise against the floor. “Hey. What are you doing?”

“Grading some papers.” He held up one of the stacks for her inspection. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” She stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, thumbs hanging out. She stood in front of his desk, studying the nameplate that sat boldly on top of it, right next to the small stuffed tiger she'd given him when she was five. Dr. Jonathan Atkins was etched on the plate in gold.

“If you're bored, you can do me a favor...” he hinted, tapping a red pen against the desk, the clicks forming a familiar rhythm. Three long taps, two short ones.

“Um, okay.” She took her hands out and matched his rhythm by lightly patting her own legs.

“I'm going to the bank tomorrow. I've got a big jar of change that needs to be rolled... Interested?”

She shrugged amiably. “Sure.”

He smiled, standing up from his desk and walking briskly into the other room. “I'll go get it.”

She ambled over to his desk, lifting papers and observing some of the responses. EXPLAIN THE NATURALISTIC FALLACY was written at the top of each looseleaf page. Underneath this request were various explanations from the students, none of which made very much sense to her. She doubted they made much sense to him, either.

He returned, a large glass jar in one hand, a box full of coin wrappers in the other. He handed them to her and returned to his desk.

She sat on the floor, legs crossed, feet neatly under knees. She upturned the jar, sending a cascade of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies to the floor. They clinked against each other simultaneously, an ocean of coins crashing against a carpeted beach. The television had settled into a comfortable family sitcom. She listened with half an ear to the show while sorting the change — nickels with nickels, dimes with dimes. Four metal piles were the results. She opened the box and grabbed a handful of five dollar dime wrappers.