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perpendicular to mine. He wasn’t tall but he looked strong, his body lean, like a mountain biker or rock climber, with solid, tanned arms, even in winter. “So what have you learned so far?”
    â€œExcuse me?” I was still thinking about his arms.
    â€œIn your studies here,” Ryan said, his gaze direct and amused. “What have you learned?”
    â€œWell …” I thought for a few seconds. “I’ve learned that the body is just a body.” I met his eyes, feeling like I needed to prove something. “A vessel. People look different when they’re dead. No matter how well Mr. Ludwig sets the features or Victoria does the makeup, it’s never quite right because the thing that animates them is missing,” I said. “The soul or essence or whatever.”
    Ryan raised his eyebrows, looking at me speculatively. “Maybe … but you know Mr. Ludwig and Victoria work from the outside, not in.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œThink about the stuff we do: using cotton to make the earlobes hang right and the cheeks look round, molding the lips to the right fullness and width,” Ryan said. “We can use pictures and the body’s clues—like where the lips change texture and color—to set the features, but we can’t replicate the body’s quirks. When people are alive, their brain directs muscles to work a certain way and produce a certain look.”
    â€œHuh.” That had never occurred to me. I spoke slowly, considering it. “So you think the difference in how they look is totally anatomical and not about the soul leaving the body?”
    â€œIt’s possible. They might look different for very basic, scientific reasons,” Ryan answered, deftly hoisting himself up to sit on the counter. “Have you learned anything else?”
    I was still leaning and probably too short to do what Ryan had done with any grace, so I stayed put. “I’ve learned that very few people are ready for death. Except maybe the very old or sick,” I added, thinking of the man on the bench in Chicago.
    Ryan nodded.
    â€œWhat I’ve been thinking about a lot lately is the people left behind,” I told him. “I mean, what we do here is really about them, right?”
    â€œOf course. Undertaking is for the living,” Ryan answered. “We help them say good-bye.”
    Something about the way he said it made me look at him more carefully, feeling like we’d moved beyond intellectual sparring to a place more personal. “Have you ever lost anyone close to you?” I asked softly. The question was both too forward and anticipated. I could read the answer on his face even before I asked it.
    Ryan nodded. “My mom.” He said it without averting his eyes or trying to hide the shadow that passed over them. “She died when I was eleven. Cancer. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to deal with.”
    I nodded.
    â€œI know you’ve been through it, too,” he said. “I’m sure you understand.”
    â€œI do.” We were silent for a moment and I thought, this isn’t how I’d pegged Ryan at all. Maybe I should have. I don’t think you can be in this business without a great deal of sensitivity. “I wonder about them,” I said finally. “My parents, my grandmother.” Mr. McKenzie who got hit by a car, the girl who jumped in New York, Walter Ness. All the people whose deaths I’d had a hand in. “What do you think happens to people when they die?”
    Ryan hesitated and I waited for another complex answer, but a voice in the hall surprised us both. Mr. Ludwig. I held my breath, sure he’d come in, but he passed by, probably for supplies that Ryan or I should have been refilling. When I looked back at Ryan I saw him exhale, then look at his watch. “Jury’s still out,” he said, pushing off the counter. He landed gracefully on