I thought I might just wander around,” I say to the faceless woman in the main office at Woodlawn Cemetery, “and see if I can find the, uh, site. I won’t be long.”

“Sir,” she replies, “there are over 300,000 interment lots at this facility. It’s all computerized. Might I see your lot card?”

I check my back pockets.

I check my jacket pockets.

I check my front pants pocket, feeling her eyes on me, finding only a key, feeling the panic making its way up my spine.

“Just a moment,” I say to her. “I’m sure I have it here somewhere …”