“Professional Mourner”, her business card would have said, if she had one. But in her line of business, titles didn’t mean much, and piety was a bitch. Not like in India, where you could hire whole crowds of mourners, laughers or silent starers through the classifieds.

Most of her jobs she got through Liam, a retired Irish undertaker with a round face and a voice like milk. How he got them, she didn’t know, although she had often asked. Not from the mourning family, anyway. “Let it go”, he had said the last time, “it’s complicated enough as it is.”

A cab was waiting. No limo today, except for old Mr. Lee of course.