Eight days.

The black wool skirt itched, even through her tights. It was her least favorite. Why did she wear it? It was hard to keep from scratching at her thighs.

Not like anyone would have noticed. They were staring at the small polished coffin, child-sized, propped on a pair of beams artfully disguised with a tarp of fake grass. Another covered the dirt pile. The same dirt that would be shoveled in on top of the casket once everyone had gone.

They were ...