Matt Click blonde locks. He eases his weight from one skater shoe to the other, hands disappearing within the pockets of his black hoodie. A cast adorns his right arm, the result of his most recent half-pipe accident. I clear my throat. “Hey, man. How long have you been here?” Zach shrugs. “Few minutes, I guess. Dad and Jake are on their way up.” He glances towards the closed door nearby, his brow furrowing. “How is she doing?” I shake my head. “I think we’re here to say goodbye.” The door opens and Dad steps into the hallway. He forces a smile and runs a hand across his balding pate. It’s time to bid our farewells. The tabby is cold. It feels like a stuffed animal. Rigor mortis has set in and it remains stiff in my hand, unmoving. It doesn’t feel real. It feels like one of those horrible things in a taxidermist’s office, perched in some unnaturally epic stance, mouth agape, claws outstretched. No pulse beats against my palm, no warmth escapes the tiger-striped fur as I move it carefully to the side of the road. I lay it on the gravel and contemplate what to do next. It’s dead. Really, what can I do? The hazard lights on my Toyota blink on and off, on and off. I rummage through the well-worn chest, my fingers running over the smooth surfaces of the familiar items within. Turtle shells, a rope of bear claws, beads, leather pouches, a sheathed dagger, the hand-carved pipe that still smells of smoke. I breathe deeply, inhaling the sickly sweet scent of tobacco that is at once both comforting and repellent. I set the items in rows on the thick, white carpet, admiring the light that reflects in facets off the surface of the turtle shells. The last item I lay out is long, black and sharp. “Eagle’s talon,” Grandma Gail says from the living room couch. She watches me, smiling. I nod and run my tiny eight-year-old index finger along the curve. I picture it dangling from the scaly foot of a large bird of prey, scooping rodents into the air. “Will I ever get any of Grandpa Tom’s things?” I ask. “I’m sure,” Grandma says. “When you’re older, maybe.” A framed photo of Grandpa rests above the chest. He stands in full SWAT gear, comfortably hefting a deadly-looking sniper rifle. Great Grandma Bea looks tiny and shrunken in the hospice bed. Like
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