October 1st, somewhere between 24 and 48 hours after his death, approximately an hour before I boarded a direct, nonstop flight to Milwaukee, I drank six shots of espresso. The airport barista didn’t want to give me six shots, she said it would make me sick, but I insisted. To make her feel better, I told her I would spit out some of it, and I did, I spit it out into a garbage can. My flight was on time, which made me feel calm and generous and philosophical, considering the wretched circumstances. I settled down into my assigned window seat and took out my traveler kit from the canvas suitcase, which I refused to check, and I swallowed a pill for sinus-pressure relief. After I stowed everything neatly under the seat in front of me, something inside me rumbled; it took me a minute to come to the realization that I needed to take a monstrous shit. I flew at once out of my seat, squeezed by all of the people crowding the aisle with their duffel bags and children, and shoved myself into the tiny bathroom, cramming my elbows into my stomach, hunched over, as the shit started to come out. For no reason at all, I thought of a horse and an apple cart, the horse pulling the little cart of bright red apples up a partially shaded gray hill. They had to knock on the door to get me to come out, the shit was so large and dense, it must have taken almost fifteen minutes to evacuate.