Page 290 of Bitter’s Sweet

“Five.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

Mercy sighs.

“Fine.”

Bitter watches this negotiation like he has discovered a religion.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was definitely something.”

“You negotiate.”

“I've always negotiated.”

“Yeah. I just used to think that meant the part before I ignored the answer.”

The honesty stops me.

Bitter looks down at the dirt.

“Not anymore.”

I push another shovelful into the hole.

“Good.”

We fill it together.

Mostly Bitter.

Partly me.

Several other people eventually join because apparently Grave Prowlers consider standing around while one man fills a hole inefficient.

Nobody makes it romantic.

That is what makes it feel strangely romantic.

When the last loose dirt is spread flat, I use the back of the shovel to tamp one corner.

“Stay dead,” I tell whatever version of Bitter that hole represents.

Mercy folds her arms.

“Amen.”

Sheriff crows from somewhere behind us.

Bitter looks toward the sound. “Show-off.”

I laugh.