As they passed me, I saw his hand hanging off the edge of the stretcher.
Burned black as charcoal.
But his fingers were still clenched around something.
I stopped them and stepped forward.
The moment I saw what he was holding, the tears came in a flood I couldn't stop.
Even scorched beyond recognition, it was unmistakable. Clutched in my father-in-law's charred hand was the photograph from my wedding to John.
The bitterness swelled until it filled every corner of my chest.
I turned slowly and looked at John, who sat with one leg crossed over the other, smoking without a care in the world.
"John. Don't you want to come see this?"
"See what?! What's there to see about some burned-up dead body?!"
"And stay away from that thing! I'm telling you, if you pick up any of that bad luck, don't bother coming home!"
He waved impatiently at the young men. The one in front shoved me aside, then looked up at John.
"Boss, what do you want us to do with the body?"
"Take him to the funeral home."
I got the words out before John could answer, then turned to face him.