“You don’t need coffee,” I say.
“I enjoy the taste and the feeling of energy when I drink it.”
“You don’t need caffeine; you need to go back to sleep. It’s too early for this.”
“The sun is up,” he declares. “Therefore, I am up. Therefore,youare up.” He turns fully toward me, the chair wobbling dangerously beneath him again. The chair creaks ominously, and I step forward quickly to grab the back before it tips over.
“You are going to crack your stubborn skull open in my kitchen,” I tell him, lifting him off the chair like an indignant cat and setting him on the counter where he crosses his arms and pouts adorably. “And I just cleaned, so it would upset me greatly if you got blood all over my kitchen.” I glare at him with the dead-eyed resignation of someone who has not yet had coffee.
“I had it handled,” he protests weakly.
“Sure you did,” I mutter sarcastically. I move on autopilot. Filter. Grounds. Water. The machine sputters to life.
Ember leans forward, watching the brewing coffee drip into the pot with an obsession that can’t be healthy. The bitter smell fills the kitchen, dark and rich. He inhales dramatically and whispers, “Yes.”
When enough has brewed for me to fill a cup, I fix him his coffee in a mug that saysI enjoy romantic walks through haunted places, and hand it to him. He wraps both handsaround and shivers in delight before taking a big sip and wincing as it scalds his tongue.
“It’s hot,” he accuses, blowing on it furiously, dignity nowhere to be found.
“You just saw me pour it. Of course it’s fucking hot.”
I enjoy the silence for a minute, contemplating today’s chores. The sun crests the horizon, and gold light spills through the window, signaling the beginning of the day.
“I finished cleaning everything yesterday,” I tell him.
“And today,” he says without a trace of sarcasm, “you made coffee. Both are jobs well done.”
I roll my eyes, annoyed by his inability to focus on anything except for his steaming hot cup of caffeine. From downstairs comes a ringing sound, and we both freeze, coffee cups halfway to our mouths, the old landline echoing through the building.
“Maybe someone has a dead body for you to take care of,” Ember says brightly with a scary grin.
I sprint downstairs, flying around corners and slipping on the slick floors. The rug in my office nearly kills me as my foot catches on the corner, and I have to crawl the last couple of feet to the desk and snatch up the receiver before the caller hangs up.
“Jeremiah Graves Mortuary and Funeral Home,” I say breathlessly. “This is Sunshine speaking. How may I assist you today?” I really need to change the name. Jeremiah Graves Mortuary and Funeral Home is too much of a mouthful to say every time I answer the phone.
A sniffle comes through the line, followed by the trembling voice of an older woman. “I… I was told you used to handle smaller services. My cat passed away last night.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say gently, my professional mode clicking on instantly. “We absolutely do. I’m very sorry for your loss. What was your cat’s name?”
“Mr. Pickles.”
“He sounds like a very distinguished gentleman.”
“He really was,” she says through a watery laugh.
We go through the details of the funeral for Mr. Pickles. Small viewing. Family only. Tomorrow afternoon. Cremation afterward, with the ashes returned in a small wooden box.
Before hanging up, she hesitates. “Can it feel… real?” she asks quietly. “Like a proper goodbye? I don’t want this to be another person humoring an old woman. Mr. Pickles was an important being in my life.”
“Yes,” I promise somberly. “It will be a very real funeral. We respect all of the dead here, up to and including beloved family pets.”
When the call ends, the office feels different, like the building heard there’s a funeral tomorrow and is preparing itself appropriately.
“Business?” Ember asks from his place in the doorway, loudly sipping his coffee. How he got down the stairs without spilling any, I’ll never know.
“Yes, for a cat,” I confirm.
“We do funerals for rabid animals now?” his brow quirks.
