The First Counsel

* * *

"Have you seen it?" I ask Pam, who's sitting alone on a bench in the corner of the room.

"No, I . . ."

"Go to the window. Trust me, you won't be disappointed. It's like a pregnant 747."

"Michael . . ."

"I know--I sound like a tourist--but that's not always such a bad thing. Sometimes you have to pull out the camera, put on the Hard Rock T-shirt, and let it all hang--"

"We're not tourists," she growls, her frozen glare stabbing me in the chest. "We're going to a funeral." As usual, she's right.

I step back to stop myself. Head to toe, I feel about two feet tall. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--"

"Don't worry about it," she says, refusing to face me. "Just tell me when it's time to go."