Page 24 of Trailer Park Billionaire

“So,” Alex says, tossing the little plastic bag into my lap, “what’s next?”

“Next… we need an urn,” I mutter, my eyes instinctively drifting back to the crematorium. “We can’t give this to her in a plastic bag.”

For a second, Alex stares at me with his mouth open, then he quickly hits the button to lock all the doors. “Nope. We’re not going back in there.”

“I don’t know. Seems like a bad omen to just carry these around without a proper container, doesn’t it?”

Alex grumbles quietly for a beat, then punches the steering wheel.

“Oh, hold on,” I say and buckle myself in. “I have a better idea. We need to go back to Dusty. Let’s go.”

My driver, relieved he doesn’t have to break back into the crematorium, doesn’t even question why and starts the car. A few minutes later, we’re back at the underpass where I retrieve the old can of paint that I had stepped in earlier. I even find the lid a few feet from it. After thoroughly washing both in the nearby river and scrubbing them with my own shirt, I place the ashes inside and seal the can. Then I hop into the back of the RV and grab a pen and notepad.

From the corner of his eyes, Alexei observes me struggling to write something that makes sense of this situation—somethingthat doesn’t make me sound like a dead-person-stealing-psychopath.

“Dear Helenka,” Alex says eventually, “after delivering you some food the other day, I figured I’d make it awkward by also delivering you your grandpa. You’re welcome. Benedikt.”

I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of this whole situation. It’s so absurd, it might actually work. Helena is not the trusting kind, but my gut says that this might get me an in with her. And I still do believe that it is actually the right thing to do.

“That not it?” he asks. “No problem: Dear Helly, I don’t know the proper etiquette for gifting someone their freshly toasted relative, but hey—this is express delivery withnoshipping fee. Also, no need to thank me. Ben.”

I shake my head. “Not quite there yet, I’m afraid.”

“Alright,” he tries again. “Dear Hells-Bells?—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” I cut in. “I don’t think bringing up hell is going to get us anywhere under these circumstances.”

Alex nods, turns on the radio, and drives the rest of the way in silence, only interrupted by him humming along to some tunes and munching on some cookies. I manage to write a message explaining what I have done—sort of—and once we make it to the building, I creep up to her apartment, place the can gently on her doorstep, knock once, and hurry back down the stairs. For some reason, it feels wrong to stick around and watch her find her grandpa mysteriously appear outside her door.

9

HELENA

“Dear Helena,” I read the note out loud once I realize I can’t find whoever delivered… an old can of paint? It’s slightly dirty, as if whoever wrote it had just done some gardening. “I figured he shouldn’t start his afterlife confined to the crematorium jail, so I broke him out. A posthumous prison break if you will—so you wouldn’t have to deal with whatever remains.” I look down at the used metal can and then continue reading. “Consider it a home delivery service. Albeit a really weird one.”

This can’t be…

Who would even…

I lean down, pick up the‘delivery,’and take it inside. Then I get a knife, place it under the brim of the can, and lever it open. Inside is nothing but a plastic bag. It’s tied up and contains a dark, ashy soot.

No way.

I can’t help but let out a single laugh in disbelief. Then I read the rest of the letter. “PS: If he starts haunting me for this, I’m taking him back to jail.”

Who in the hell?

I read the whole thing again.

“…so you wouldn’t have to deal with whatever remains.”

For the first time in—I don’t even know how long—I laugh. I allow myself to laugh. Not just a chuckle. Out loud. I somehow can’t help it. I laugh like a maniac who hasn’t eaten or slept right in days. Because that iswhowhat I am now, I guess. Holding on by a thread. Barely.

On the label of the can, someone scribbled‘Whatever Remains’in black marker—making me laugh even more.

Mr. Lyon.

I remember telling him that having to take care ofwhatever remainsafter someone’s death was the worst part about losing a loved one. Looks like he, for whatever reason, took that to heart—and quite literally, at that.