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Who gives a shit, says the plugger, lazily pushing his collection of dust around the floor with his broom. Deb died last May, and the last time he even saw his kids was at her funeral. The last time before that was on little David's graduation party. He always hated me, the plugger thinks. I tried raising that boy right. What's the point, who gives a shit, the plugger thinks again, throwing the broom across the room. It knocks over Deb's urn. Its lid cracks in two. Deb's in no danger of being scattered among the rest of the dust in the house; the plugger hasn't opened the thick plastic sack she came back in. The plugger limps past the dead urn and into the living room, through the living room and into the office where Deb used to paint. It still smells like paint in here, but also dust. He limps past the shelves of paints and spare canvases toward a safe. A giant tumbler safe that's been in the family for generations. That ends here, though, with the plugger. David's no fucking plugger, that's for sure, and I guess he...

The plugger turns the big tumbler. 9. 3. 7.

The giant heavy door swings open. Maybe that's my fucking problem, the plugger says. The lead in this fucking thing rotted my brain. I bet Dav.... well.

He carries the object from the safe to the desk. He fumbles around and his meaty arthritic hands grasp a Sharpie and a sheet of paper.

Dear Dana,

I'm sorry.

He picks up the object and stares it in the eyes, one last time. One flip of the lever and Dana is now two urns richer.