Bloor Line, out of the way.

Asian woman, mid 20s, wearing a crisp, long sleeved white dress shirt tucked in to low-waisted grey dress pants. She leans near the back of the train, balancing the book in one hand, the purse hanging hooked on the index finger of the other.

The Penelopiad, Margaret Atwood (Knopf)

Page 17:

Every once in a while the fogs part and we get a glimpse of the world of the living. It's like rubbing the glass on a dirty window, making a space to look through. Sometimes the barrier dissolves and we can go on an outing. Then we get very excited, and there is a great deal of squeaking.

She stands at the edge of her grandmother's grave, listens to the low growl of his voice, carnage and rumble. His daughter looks at her feet, counting the seconds until she can get in her rental, speed away to the airport, comfortable only after they've taxied and lifted.

Closed coffin.

No one wants to be near him.