One of the men in charge of lowering the casket started up an electrical device that hummed. Reverend Badger paused in his droning. The casket, on its canvas bands, was lowered into the earth. The reverend went back to where he had left off. “The days of our age are three score and ten.” “Fool,”  Danny said quietly now. Only a ceritfied idiot would include that line under the circumstances. The guy was certifiable. However long three score and ten was. It didn’t apply to Cookie. She was fifteen years old. And would be forever. Dot squeezed his arm. The rain kept on, snaking down the sides of the shining wooden container that housed his sister. When they had picked it out at the funeral parlour Danny had thought it looked like a miniature palace furnished in satin and sparkles, but now he could see that it was just wood after all, and it wouldn’t be shiny once it was in the ground. It would dull and wet and soon rotten. “For Christ’s sake,” he said now. “Fill the hole around her.” There were no shovels in sight. A small yellow machine stood a ways off, partially hidden behind a tree. It looked as though it may have been responsible for digging the hole; perhaps it also had the job of filling it in. Danny got down on his kness and began to push the piled dirt into the space around the casket. “Danny, please.” It was his mother’s voice. He didn’t care.