Under gray skies in the American town of Silverton, a cold wind carried the smell of rain and stone dust across the hillside cemetery. People in black coats gathered near the small brick crematorium, whispering condolences that sounded rehearsed and hollow. At the center of the group stood a woman whose face had gone pale beyond grief. Her name was Kimberly Dawson. She was thirty eight years old, and her hands shook as she clutched her phone against her heart.
On the screen was a frozen image of her son Tyler smiling at the kitchen table only a week earlier, crumbs of chocolate cake on his cheeks, eyes bright with life. Now the same child lay inside a small white coffin surrounded by roses. The coffin rested on a metal conveyor aligned with the open mouth of the cremation chamber. Heat shimmered inside like the breath of a monster waiting to swallow everything.