The air was crisp, and the sun was bright. The dew on the blades of grass gleamed like diamonds in the early morning sun. Homer Titus, the first to arrive, drove his shovel into the grass, then lit a cigarette. Hearing the slam of Haydon’s old pickup, followed by the second slam, as the first one never quite closed the door, Homer turned toward his friend, and co-worker. Homer watched Haydon cut across the grass in his high water pants, big cuffs, shovel over his shoulder, and baseball cap on backwards. “Mornin’ Hayd’n” Homer said.

“Back at ya, Hom,” Haydon said, digging his shovel into the grass and removing a container of Copenhagen from his bib overalls. “Who we bury in’ today, anyone we know?” he asked, stuffing a wad of tobacco in his cheek.

Homer blew out a smoke ring. “Dennis Alfmatter.”

“No, shit, that old fart finally kicked off. Someone shoot him?”

Homer spat in the grass. “Don’t think so, but they should have twenty years ago. He was a piece of work. You ever have a run in with him?”