As we left the grave, my son screamed, “Mom is cold! I felt her hand!” My sister hissed, “Stop this embarrassment, she’s gone,” trying to drag him away. I ignored her and grabbed a shovel. I dug until my hands bled. When the lid finally popped open, the crowd froze in horror. My wife’s eyes were wide open, and the desperate scratches on the inside of the lid revealed a truth that made the police arrest my sister instantly

I didn’t wait for the ambulance. I couldn’t.

“Help me get her out!” I commanded.

Mark and I reached into the coffin. It was awkward, terrifying work. We lifted her body—limp, heavy, terrifyingly still—out of the satin-lined box. We laid her on the grass, on top of the jackets that people frantically threw down.

“Elena! Elena, breathe!” I slapped her cheeks lightly. “Come on, honey. Come back to me.”

Her chest was barely moving. She was taking maybe one breath every minute. She was on the edge of the precipice, teetering between worlds.

Paramedics, who had been stationed at the entrance of the cemetery for an unrelated collapse of an elderly attendee, were suddenly running toward us, carrying heavy bags.