Two months ago, an elderly man called to ask how much I charged to attend a funeral. It’s something I do between other jobs. Usually, a family expects a small turnout and wants a few extra people there. I told him it was $100. “Would that cover staying until the end?” Usually, yes. I asked whose funeral it was. “Mine. The funeral home will call you when it’s time.” He said his wife was gone and he lived alone. He wasn’t sure how many people would come. “You don’t have to pretend you knew me,” he added. “I’d just like someone to be sitting there.” I took the booking. Six weeks later, I arrived at a small chapel just before dusk. His photograph stood on the coffin. There were a few younger people scattered among the chairs. I checked the time and silenced my phone.