Everyone I know is there. We're all sitting in white, wooden folding chairs in the living room of the Polo Club. Chrissy has been shot. She's dead. No one knows who would commit this atrocity. No one knows why. Everyone is confused. Everyone is crushed. This is her funeral. There is food being served at long tables along the side of the room. Mike and I are quietly arguing over this food. The words aren't really important, but he thinks we should have done better, while I argue that we just didn't have enough money to get more. We jab in whispers till we're both close to tears. We're collecting an audience now. A few people are giving us disapproving stares. Then it's over. The mass of people heads out the front door. A young boy leads the way, bounding into the snow that swallows him up to his knees. One by one, families pile into their sensible, four wheel drive, soccer mom cars and leave us. The body has been left in the living room. We're alone with it.
We're alone.
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