Chapter 1

• I'd cremated thirteen hundred corpses. But the one I handled today opened its eyes in front of the furnace door.
• I was a cremator at a funeral home. I'd been doing this job for eight years and seen all sorts of strange things—the body suddenly sitting back, the furnace backfiring and exploding, and family members crying until they go into shock. But I'd never seen a dead person open their eyes.
• Even more eerie, he looked at me and twitched the corner of his mouth.
• It wasn't a mere flicker, but a smile. The kind that said, "I knew you'd come."
• I instinctively stepped back and knocked over the tool cart. When I looked up again, the furnace door had already closed, and the flame ignited automatically. Through the observation window, I saw that person's body tumbling in the fire, like a live fish thrown into a frying pan.
• I wasn't sure if he was really alive.
• But I was certain of one thing—the death certificate of this person was forged by me.
• Because I needed his identity to bury another person.
• My name's Jake Hanson. I ran the cremation room.
• “Room chief” sounded fancy. It was really just senior operator.
• I'd clock in at six in the morning everyday. Keep the chamber between eight hundred and a thousand degrees. A body would turn to ash in about a hundred and twenty minutes.
• In eight years, I’d sent off more than thirteen hundred people with my own hands.
• I remembered that number. Because with every body I burned, another layer of my decency gets shaved off.
• But I couldn’t stop.
• My daughter was diagnosed with leukemia three years ago. My wife and I had sold everything we could. Borrowed every dime we could. Still only halfway there.
• On a funeral home paycheck, even if I burned till my fingertips rotted, I’d never scrape together that kind of money.
• So I figured out a way.
• Exploit the loopholes in funeral contracts.
• Mark 'cremated but not registered.' Double-bill transport, disinfection, cold storage. Pad it and squeeze out some subsidies.
• Using my position, over two years I skimmed a decent chunk.
• But today’s body was different.
• —
• Last night, the director, Carl Moore, called me into his office.
• He shut the door and handed me a cigarette.
• I didn’t smoke, but every time he wanted a “private chat,” he would offer one. Like it’s some kind of signal.
• “Jake Hanson.” He lowered his voice. "There’s a special body coming in tomorrow morning. You handle it yourself.”
• “Where’s it from?”
• “Don’t ask.” He slid a manila envelope across the desk. “Death certificate, cremation authorization—everything’s in there. Follow procedure. Burn it clean.”
• I opened the envelope.
• Name: Ethan Reed. Fifty-two. Cause of death: cardiac arrest.
• The death cert had the district hospital’s stamp on it, but I spotted it in a heartbeat—the color was off. The real stamp used oil-based ink, a red tint. This one was a self-inking job, purplish.
• And the doctor who “signed” it? I knew him. He retired three months ago.
• It was a stolen blank filled in with a fake signature. Tight work. A regular person wouldn’t catch a thing.
• “Carl Moore,” I looked up, “who is this guy—”
• “I said don’t ask.” Carl crushed the cigarette in the ashtray. “All you need to know is, once it’s burned, someone will wire you six thousand dollars.”
• Six thousand bucks.
• My daughter’s imported meds next month cost exactly six thousand.
• “Okay.” I put the envelope away.
• When I walked out of his office, I ran into Mike, the guard on duty, in the hallway.
• Mike sidled up, all secretive. “Jake, the body they hauled in tonight came off a black van. Plates were covered.”
• “Mind your own business.”
• “I’m not being nosy.” Mike lowered his voice. “I’m saying, when they lifted him out, I saw his fingers move.”