For Pete G. who used to share his poetry with me. You’ll never be forgotten.

Thanks to the Sixth and Main Coffeehouse where I spent many hours working on this book. . up until I figured out they had free Internet.

SARAFINA MIGHT’VE BEEN NAMED FOR THE ANGELS, but she’d always known one day she’d end up in hell. Her mother had told her that a hundred times while she’d been growing up. She just never figured it would be while she was still breathing. But here she was — broke, dumped, and grief-stricken. It couldn’t get any worse.

Her fingers white and shaking, she released the yellow rose she held and let it fall onto Rosemary’s casket. It came to rest on the polished poplar top, followed by many more roses released by those around her. Yellow roses had been Rosemary’s favorite. They match your hair, buttercup. That’s what Rosemary had always said, holding one of the flowers up to Sarafina’s nose.

Sarafina had scraped together every last cent for that shiny coffin. She hadn’t been able to afford it. The funeral had almost beggared her. However, her foster mother had deserved the best. And since Rosemary had never had what she deserved in life, Sarafina had made sure she’d had it in death. The only problem was that now Sarafina had ninety-five dollars left in her bank account and rent had been due last week. She’d make it through, though, she always did.

She couldn’t cry. It was like all the tears were caught up inside her, stoppered tight. It would be good if she could. It would relieve this awful pressure in her chest. Sometimes crying was like bleeding, it helped cleanse a wound. That’s what Rosemary had always said.