I ducked my head under an entryway draped in golden marigolds. Right above the door hung a framed picture of Jorge, who was only twenty-six years old when he died. In the photo he wore a backwards baseball cap. Behind him were posters from bands. “Slipknot? I don’t know about that, Jorge,” I thought, wondering if it was bad form to judge the dead for their taste in music. “Oh, the Misfits! That’s a good choice.”
