Chapter 1: The Lock on the Hearse
The metallic click of the wheel lock cut through the quiet outside the funeral home.
Karen straightened beside the hearse, her bright orange blouse and fluorescent pink cardigan standing out against the gray morning. In one hand she held a homemade NO PARKING sign, printed in oversized black letters. With the other, she pointed proudly toward the lock she had just attached to the hearse’s front wheel.
“There,” she said loudly. “Now let’s see who thinks they can ignore my rules.”
Several mourners near the funeral-home entrance turned toward her.
They had been speaking in low voices only moments before. A widow stood beneath the awning with two adult children beside her, all three dressed in black. Their attention shifted from the hearse to Karen, then to one another.
The funeral-home manager came through the entrance.
He was tall, neatly dressed in a black suit, and moved quickly without running.
“Ma’am,” he said, keeping his voice controlled, “that vehicle is here for a funeral. Take that off right now.”
Karen held up her sign.
“NO PARKING means no parking.”
“This is the funeral loading area,” he replied. “It’s reserved for funeral vehicles and service operations.”
Karen frowned as though he had just contradicted a fact printed in stone.
“I don’t need your permission to enforce a rule.”
She jabbed a finger toward the curb.
The manager pointed toward a small temporary sign already positioned near the entrance.
“That sign is for the funeral service. The area is specifically designated for this purpose.”
Karen shook her head.
“My sign is perfectly clear.”
The manager looked at the homemade sign, then at the lock.
“You don’t have authority to put that on the vehicle.”
Karen stepped closer.
“Rules don’t disappear just because you’re at a funeral.”
The words landed heavily.
One of the mourners lowered his eyes. The widow’s daughter put an arm around her mother’s shoulder.
The manager noticed them.
His expression hardened.
“Please move away from the vehicle.”
Karen refused.
Instead, she lifted her sign toward the mourners as if she expected them to applaud.
“I am protecting this neighborhood.”
The manager reached for his phone.
That finally changed the mood.
Karen’s confidence flickered for half a second.
Then she smiled again.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Call whoever you want.”
The manager did.
And while he spoke quietly into the phone, Karen remained beside the hearse, convinced that the homemade sign in her hand had given her authority.
She had won a few seconds of attention.
But she had also created a much bigger problem: the funeral procession could not leave until someone dealt with the lock.
