He stood, bowed, his large hands splayed out on the dark walnut. A tear fell, leaving a bead on the polished wood. Soft music was piped in from overhead speakers, he heard none of it.

Several influential people stood in the next room waiting to pay their respects, but the undertaker kept them at bay, while also keeping an eye on the father of the boy.

The undertaker assumed, wrongly, that the man was praying.
He wasn’t. What he was doing was plotting revenge for the killing of his son. Gangbangers, the newspapers called the street gang that had killed his son. It was a mistake, they claimed. They didn’t mean to shoot a ten year old kid that was playing on a Jungle-Gym in the park.

Michael Sanders straightened, then sliding his hand the length of the small coffin he turned toward the guests. He nodded to the undertaker to let them in. The eight couples entered silently. One by one shaking Michaels hand and murmuring condolences.

The last to reach Michael was Salvadore Antonio.