“If you do the funeral today, I’ll stop dragging you to hot yoga each morning.”

She snickered. “If I had a penny for every time I’d heard that, I’d already be in Europe.”

“No, I swear! No more sweating at six in the morning.”

“That’s a lie.”

I nodded. “Yeah, that’s a lie.”

“And, no more putting off our trip to Europe. We are officially going next summer, right?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.

I groaned. Ever since she got sick two years ago, I’d been putting off taking our trip. My brain knew that she was better, she was healthy and strong, but a small part of my heart feared traveling so far from home with the possibility of something going wrong with her health in a different country.

I swallowed hard and agreed. She smiled wide, pleased, and walked into the back room.

“Which church am I even going to today?” I wondered out loud, jumping onto the computer to pull up the file. I paused and narrowed my eyes as I read the words: UW-Milwaukee Panther Arena.

“Mari,” I hollered. “This says it’s at the arena downtown…is that right?”

She hurried back into the room and peered at the computer then shrugged. “Wow. That explains all the flowers.” She ran her hands through her hair, and I smiled. Every time she did that, my heart overflowed with joy. Her growing hair was a reminder of her growing life, of how lucky we were to be in the place we were. I was so happy the flowers in the truck weren’t for her.

“Yeah, but who has a funeral at an arena?” I asked, confused.

“Must be someone important.”

I shrugged, not thinking too much of it. I arrived at the arena two hours before the ceremony to get everything set up, and the outside of the building was already surrounded with numerous people. I swore there had to be hundreds crowding the downtown streets of Milwaukee, and police officers paced the area.

Individuals were writing notes and posting them on the front steps; some cried while others were engaged in deep conversations.

As I drove the van around to the back to unload the flowers, I was denied access to the actual building by one of the arena workers. He pushed the door open and used his body to block my entrance. “Excuse me, you can’t come in here,” the man told me. “VIP access only.” He had a large headset around his neck, and the way he slightly closed the door behind him to avoid me peering inside made me suspicious.

“Oh, no, I’m just dropping off the flowers for the service,” I started to explain, and he rolled his eyes.

“More flowers?” he groaned, and then he pointed to another door. “The flower drop off is around the corner, third door. You can’t miss it,” he said flatly.

“Okay. Hey, whose funeral is this exactly?” I asked. I stood on my tiptoes and tried to get a peek of what was happening inside.

He shot me a dirty look filled with annoyance. “Around the corner,” he barked before slamming the door shut. I yanked on the door once and frowned.

Locked.

One day I’d stop being so nosey, but obviously that day wasn’t today.

I smiled to myself and mumbled, “Nice meeting you, too.”

When I drove the van around the corner, I realized we weren’t the only floral shop who’d been contacted for this event. Three vans were in line before me, and they weren’t even able to go inside the building; there were employees collecting the flower arrangements at the door. Before I could even put the car in park, workers were at the back, pounding on the back doors for me to open it up. Once I did, they started grabbing the flowers without much care, and I cringed at the way one of the women handled the white rose wreath. She tossed it over her arm, destroying the green Bells of Ireland.

“Careful!” I hollered, but everyone seemed to be deaf.

When finished, they slammed my doors shut, signed my paperwork, and handed me an envelope. “What’s this for?”

“Didn’t they tell you already?” The woman sighed heavily, then placed her hands on her hips. “The flowers are just for show, and the son of Mr. Russell instructed that they be returned to the florists who delivered them after the service. Inside is your ticket for the event, along with a pass to get backstage afterward to collect your flowers. Otherwise they will be tossed.”

“Tossed?” I exclaimed. “How wasteful.”

The woman arched an eyebrow. “Yes, because there was no possible chance the flowers wouldn’t have died all on their own,” she stated sarcastically. “At least now you can resell them.”

Resell funeral flowers? Because that wasn’t morbid.

Before I could reply, she waved me off without a goodbye.

I opened an envelope and found my ticket and a card that read, “After the service, please present this card to pick up the floral arrangements; otherwise they will be disposed of.”

My eyes read the ticket repeatedly.

A ticket.

For a funeral.

Never in my life had I witnessed such an odd event. When I rounded the corner to the main street, I noticed even more people had gathered around and were posting letters to the walls of the building.

My curiosity hit a new high, and after circling around a few times in search of parking, I pulled into a parking structure. I parked the van and climbed out to go see what everyone was doing there and whose funeral was taking place. As I stepped onto the packed sidewalk, I noticed a woman kneeling down, scribbling on a piece of paper.

“Excuse me,” I said, tapping her on the shoulder. She looked up with a bright smile on her face. “I’m sorry to bother you, but…whose funeral is this exactly?”

She stood up, still grinning. “Kent Russell, the author.”

“Oh, no way.”

“Yeah. Everyone’s writing their own eulogies about how he saved their lives and taping them to the side of the building to honor his memory, but between you and me, I’m most excited to see G.M. Russell. It’s a shame it had to be for an event such as this one, though.”

“G.M. Russell? Wait, as in the greatest thriller and horror author of all time?!” I gushed, realization finally setting in. “Oh my gosh! I love G.M. Russell!”

“Wow. Took you long enough to connect those dots. At first I thought your blond hair was dyed that color, but now I see that you are actually a true-blue blonde,” she joked. “It’s such a big event because you know how G.M. is when it comes to public appearances—he hardly makes them. At book events, he doesn’t engage with the readers except for his big fake grin, and he doesn’t ever allow photographs, but today we’ll be able to take pictures of him. This. Is. Big!”