Back in the spring, when the thawed warmth of early morning felt new through the concrete lattice of the parking garage, Eddie and Margaret would not have been so free in their intolerance of Marshall, or so close that handholding felt natural. In the spring they were just becoming accustomed to the others’ short stops, hard turns, and personal music preferences. As they maneuvered through the spaghetti-noodle streets of Washington, D.C., each would teach the other something new in a rhythmic exchange of “Do you know this shortcut?” and “Have you heard this song?”

The night Marshall began to push too far, it was Eddie’s turn to drive. He gathered himself into the driver’s seat and pulled the bar beneath to adjust the distance between his chest and the wheel, making space for his long legs. He adjusted the mirrors and bit his bottom lip with the shadow of a satisfied smile. Before the engine rumbled awake, Margaret reached for the radio dial. “Damn, you’re on a mission tonight,” Eddie said, popping the van into gear.

Margaret smiled, trying to communicate that her sour mood had nothing to do with him. “I just need to listen to something first.”

“Why? You have a rough night? Or day? Or whatever it is?” Eddie’s eyes darted over to gauge her reaction. They didn’t usually speak with eggshells littering the end of their sentences, and his stammering hinted at Margaret’s awkward mood. He had started to let his guard down with her over the past months: dropping the g at the end of a progressive verb, speaking faster with his hands, and disregarding the need to code switch. Margaret had started to do the same. They taught each other new slang that they used with their own friends, inventing a shared dialect like lovers, or best friends. Or two people who spent five nights a week with one another, in a van, picking up dead bodies to transport to morgues and funeral homes.

Margaret didn’t answer. She turned the dial until she landed in the middle of Otis Redding’s "I've Been Loving You." Then she repeated, “I just need to listen to something first.”

Eddie thought Margaret’s skin looked like notebook paper, and he didn’t understand why her ponytail was always messy, or why tired rings lined her eyes. He didn’t remember her from any classes at mortuary school, but their classes must have overlapped along the way. The two-year difference in their ages did not seem significant, except that it defined their socioeconomic class: Margaret had started mortuary school straight from high school, with a semester off to travel. Eddie had taken two years off to work, help his mom, and save money.

Their pairing at the mortuary service had solved a problem: no one wanted to be partnered with a small, bird-like girl, or a young black man. Eddie knew this; Margaret only suspected it. They each made people feel just uncomfortable enough. What their boss and co-workers did not realize was that marginalized people have a determination, and a work ethic, that may not be ingrained in someone who has never had to use their brain for basic survival, never been called slut or boy by a stranger, never lived in a world with startling limits.

The van eased around the dark, gridded streets behind the Capitol Building. Black lampposts shined warm yellow onto wide sidewalks and pebbled paths. Parked cars were sparse. The homeless, like stranded kittens, huddled for warmth over metro grates. National monuments and memorials glowed like enormous nightlights and stood out over dark pockets where drug addicts collapsed for the night, while the rest of the city pulsed, uninterrupted, behind them. Every night, Lincoln faced the Capitol Building while Jefferson kept his eyes locked on the White House. Margaret and Eddie each watched the city and silently agreed that this was one of their favorite things about their job—the quiet emptiness of otherwise tourist-crowded streets, the great lawns and paths now emptied of government workers who jog the length of the National Mall or circle the Tidal Basin during their lunch breaks.

Every traffic light turned in their favor as the drumbeat built and Redding’s voice grew stronger, quickly becoming even and persuading the guitar and horns to follow. The two muted passengers were carried down the streets in the large van as the song moved around them and eased to an end. Before Margaret could reach the dial, an invasive radio-advertising gimmick screeched, “D-D-Double Hit!” and another Otis Redding song began. "Try A Little Tenderness" rose from the speakers, with its deep, slow, romantic intro, Redding stressing each word as though it was the most important word in the song. Eddie and Margaret continued to drive quietly through downtown as the song found its beat. The melody conjured individual memories for each of them: summer picnics, their mother dusting the living room, the hidden track placed in the middle of a mixtape. Each memory fell out and was replaced by the one they were creating together in this moment. The green glow of the radio station; the smell of cleaning solution so strong that it deleted all other smells; the worn, soft seats; the identical 7-Eleven fountain drinks; their friend next to them.

Eddie’s knee became a muffled drum he tapped softly, trying not to irritate Margaret. She noticed and started to bob her head—barely, evenly. Margaret’s clouded mood turned and lifted. The song built in an even crescendo. Eddie’s drums became stronger. Margaret exaggerated each beat with her shoulders. They side-glanced each other and grinned big as they began to sing out loud with Redding —Squeeze her, don’t tease her, never leave her—in a way that would have otherwise embarrassed them. But here, wrapped by night, cruising abandoned streets with a person who could not seemingly be more their opposite, it was a way to stave off the gruesomeness of their job. Before they had to cloak themselves in solemn faces, collect the dead, and complete their delivery. It was their favorite thing to do while on their way to pick up a dead body.

The song ended and Margaret turned down the radio. “Yeah, I kind of had a rough day.”

Eddie continued to drive, looking out his driver's side window, checking streets.

“I had a fight with a friend.”

 “Who? Samantha?” Eddie interrupted abruptly. Ever since she’d introduced them, he’d developed a habit of teasing her about how beautiful, sexy, hot Samantha was. But she was in no mood for it tonight.

 Margaret rolled her eyes. “No, not Samantha.”

“She even has one of those sexy names. Samantha.” Eddie sounded out her name in a whisper.

“Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

Eddie reached over and pinched the back of her arm, above her elbow. “You know I’m just teasing you.”

Margaret pulled her arm away. “Ow! That hurts, asshole,” she shouted, returning with a punch to the shoulder.

Eddie winced. “Shit, that hurt, Lindsey.”

Margaret puckered her lips, trying not to smile, but finally couldn’t help herself. She liked all the nicknames he had for her, even the redundant and unfavorable ones: Maggie May, Magazine, Mag Pie, Madge. And Margaret Atwood. That one had thrown her the first time he used it. “What do you know?” he’d said. “Is your last name Atwood now? Margaret Atwood? Is that who you are?” They were arguing about dystopian fiction.

Her head darted and she stared at him, stunned. “How do you know who Margaret Atwood is?”

“I can’t know who Margaret Atwood is?”

“I just find it surprising that you know a feminist sci-fi writer from Canada.”

Eddie paused. “I don’t know what her being Canadian has to do with it,” he grumbled. They had laughed hard at this. Tears welling in their eyes. Margaret’s cheeks turning red. A first inside joke, laying the tracks to the shorthand they would gradually adapt and use to communicate.

They made their way through DuPont Circle, a much easier feat at this time of night, and continued north, following Connecticut Avenue over the bridge where sprawling Rock Creek Park rested below. The van turned left onto Calvert, and then another left. The two found themselves in the nook of a neighborhood that is only a stone’s throw from the vice president’s house and not far from where Margaret’s mother lives. But neither of them had ever been in this neighborhood, and the curving streets and large, old trees that black out any light seemed ominous. They remained quietly focused on trying to read house numbers, unsure if they were on the right street.

After making a large circle through a park that they had not expected to enter, and then retracing their route, they found the hidden street they had bypassed the first time: privacy walls, tall bushes, hills, and homes that sat far from the street. Margaret realized that the part of Massachusetts Avenue known as Embassy Row was just a few streets over. These were the houses of foreign diplomats, consulates, and attachés. The District coroner’s car and police vehicles crowded the driveway as an ambulance silently pulled away.

They parked the van on the street. The front lawn had been recently landscaped in preparation for summer, and the foul odor of mulch penetrated the van’s closed doors. The two peered out the driver's-side window, up at the red brick mansion with white columns and attached garage. They were more familiar with boarded-up neighborhoods and retirement homes, with collecting gunshot victims or picking up homeless people who had frozen to death or overdosed.

Margaret and Eddie slid out of their seats and exited the car without a word, unloading the stretcher for the body. A few people from the neighborhood and police officers on the lawn watched them approach the front of the house. Margaret hoped that the darkness would mask their identities enough to keep the regular scoffs and stares at bay. Eddie knew that it wouldn’t.

As they rolled the stretcher toward the front door, the persistent glow of the porch lights betrayed them, and Margaret started to sense the judgment. Eddie walked backwards into the front door; Margaret followed, lifting the stretcher over the single step and threshold. Two uniformed police officers stood in the living room, watching Margaret and Eddie, absorbing the pair. They remained silent for an awkward amount of time.

Finally, Margaret said, “Can you show us to the body?” The words rang in her ears. She never knew how to phrase this and hated when she gave in, forced to ask. The words played in a loop through her head until someone or something broke the cycle.

The two police officers took another second, but then the taller of the two stepped forward and said, “This way. Leave the stretcher here.”

Margaret kept her lips pursed and felt on edge. She could tell that Eddie didn’t mind as much anymore, or at least not tonight. She had yet to get used to the double take, the disappointment, the “You’re the ones picking up the body?” and “How are you going to pick up anything,” the assessments of her size and the color of his skin. As though small women and black men were incapable of collecting the dead.

Margaret and Eddie followed the taller officer down a metal spiral staircase to the basement. Margaret mentally prayed for a very small person. Then quickly amended the prayer: but not a child. She thought, at the time, that this might be the time that would break them. She stayed directly behind the officer, sandwiched between him and Eddie. She created a buffer between the two men, the meat of the sandwich that kept the bread from touching.

The officer led them down a long corridor, so dark Margaret almost lost track of the space between the two men and herself. The gleam of the handcuffs hanging on the officer’s hip grabbed what light it could and reflected it, leading Margaret forward. She could not hear Eddie but knew he was still there. They turned a corner and the space opened up, the bright white light momentarily stinging their dilated pupils.

There were a few additional people in what appeared to be the basement living room, but the contrast of the two spaces couldn’t be more abrupt. Upstairs was refined, wood floors and expensive rugs, cozy and adorned with china, antiques, and family portraits. Downstairs was clean and modern, with reflective surfaces and a huge television angled in the corner. Mirrors lined the wall behind the bar, no sports memorabilia or pictures of family and friends—just white.

Margaret was momentarily confused about what she had just walked into. It wasn’t an English basement apartment—these people obviously didn’t need the extra income. “He’s in here,” the officer called out, reining in her attention.

They turned left and passed two detectives on their way. Down a small hall, a door stood open where Marshall was standing. He looked up from the notes he had been reviewing, and his face dropped a little. “Oh, you two,” he said, without hiding his disappointment, or annoyance—a reaction he seemed to always have when Margaret and Eddie appeared. “Well, I guess you’ll do,” he added.

“We always do,” Margaret said with a quick smile. She had taken to chirping back comments at the old man, something she had found worked when it came to handling men of a certain age. They seemed to find that she had gumption, or moxie, and easily warmed to her. She never accounted for the possible negative effects.

Marshall looked her up and down. She didn’t notice, but Eddie caught the old man’s eyes from behind her and it turned his stomach. “Yes, I guess you do,” the coroner said, turning toward the light of the bathroom. “Well, he’s in here.”

The three fit comfortably into the bathroom that could have easily accommodated four to five more people. There was a huge whirlpool tub, a separate shower, and a bidet—all white and glistening, looking as though they had barely been used. Margaret couldn’t help but attempt to exchange a glance when she saw the bidet, but when she turned to look at Eddie his eyes were already past the bidet. She turned back and followed his line of sight, finding the body that had brought them there.

A young man, about their age, sat on the floor, still gripped to the toilet. The ripe smell of death had passed, yet his limbs were locked in place, clutching the neck of the bowl. The hue of his skin faded and gray. Their brains required a moment to connect all the dots, register the situation, understand that this young man was not going to stand up, wipe the vomit from his mouth, and walk past them. Margaret finally confessed that she could not piece together the whole story in her mind. “What happened?” she murmured to the body.

It was common not to ask anything at all. By the time Margaret and Eddie usually arrived, witnesses had been interviewed, photos taken, and evidence collected.  Sometimes the details were provided as they arrived, sometimes it was clear, and sometimes it just didn’t matter.

The question satisfied the gray-haired, dumpy coroner, and his voice lifted as he explained, “Well, it seems that the person who actually lives here was providing drugs to this young man.” Marshall gestured to the body that had ostensibly become part of the toilet. “But the resident has taken a six-week trip abroad. The young man didn’t know that and, out of what appears to be desperation, broke into the house, found the drug stash, and overdosed.” He waited for their reaction, watching as the two solemnly regarded the body and edged closer to one another.

“How long?” Eddie asked from somewhere past Margaret’s shoulder.

“About two days,” Marshall said without looking at him. The two-member removal team stood quietly folded into their own shared thoughts. The body looked far more worn than a two-day stay in a temperature-controlled basement would leave it. The skin around the arms was taut and skeletal, the face weak and sunken. The body looked to be several months old, instead of just days, and the young man looked years older than he should.

“But...” Margaret began to speak but Marshall cut her off.

“Drugs.”

And with that, Marshall turned to leave. As he passed Eddie, he patted him on the shoulder and said, “Just say no, right?” He laughed heartily at his own joke, as Eddie and Margaret remained motionless.

Margaret snapped to and called out to Marshall, who had already been enveloped by the black hallway, “How are we supposed to get him up the stairs?”

Cackles of laughter surged in from the hallway and down through the winding stairs, sounding like a clan of hyenas readying for a satisfying meal. Margaret and Eddie both turned in confused unison. “You idiots,” they heard the old man scold the officer and two detectives in the basement living room. Marshall poked his head back into the bathroom. “There’s an elevator,” he said, and then he was gone.

After they retrieved their stretcher and put on their disposable protective coveralls in embarrassed silence, Eddie and Margaret stood on either side of the toilet, assessing the body like a jigsaw puzzle. Few words had been exchanged since realizing they were the butt of the most recent joke. All of the teasing and pranks and discreet harassments were at first torturous but had since become redundant and annoying. The punishment was meant to make them turn against one another or quit or keep them in their place. But that had not happened, and the belittling jabs slowly became infrequent.

“Maybe if we...” Margaret started. She was standing on the inside of the commode, closest to the wall. She knew, with her small frame and short legs, she would need to take the inside. She bent down to get an idea of how the arms and legs were locked. The young man’s feet were crossed together under the tank of the toilet. His fingers were interlocked through the oval of the seat with his head still rested against the rim as though he was holding tight to a life preserver. He looked like a little boy grabbing the leg of a parent that he did not wish to leave for work. Margaret reached down to see how set his legs and fingers were. She pulled at a finger, testing its pliability. It did not move, release, or bend. “Full rigor,” she said, still looking at the body.

Eddie squatted down on the other side of the toilet and tried to do the same with a leg and a foot but was met with similar resistance. Instead of standing back up, Eddie sank to the floor and folded his legs in front of him like a child, still staring at the body. “I’ve known guys like this before,” Eddie addressed the young man’s body more than he did Margaret, “eaten through by drugs.” He paused, still studying the young man who had passed, the young man who could have been one of their friends. “You know him?” Eddie finally said, looking up at Margaret.

Margaret tilted her head to the side and let out a half smile. It was a joke they’d been trying on each other over the previous weeks. For every white body they picked up, Eddie asked if Margaret knew them, and Margaret did the same in reverse for the brown bodies, but far more tentatively. “Not all white people know each other,” Margaret replied, giving the proper response, appreciating the needed joke. Eddie smiled up from the floor; some of the tension dissipated.

Margaret leaned over the toilet again, trying to get a bird’s-eye of the body’s position. “Wait,” she said, leaning closer to the toilet. She reached down and gently closed the top lid of the seat, resting it on the head of the body, then looked somewhere behind the lid. She moved her body again between the wall and the toilet and bent over, almost resting her head on the floor, to assess something under the seat. Turning to one side, with her left arm supporting herself on the floor, she put her right arm around the body and grabbed the bowl for balance. With her body now teetering around the toilet, she reached under the base with her left hand and began to work something loose with her fingers.

“What on earth are you doing, Lindsey?” Eddie remained on the floor, unsure of what was happening. He saw before him a dead man gripped to a fancy toilet and his partner looking as though she was attached like a shadow, spooned around it, with her living body wrapped around the dead body. Margaret made a strained face and continued to work, her fingers out of sight. “Maggie?” he asked again, with soft, questioning concern in his voice.

“Almost got it.”

“Got what? What the hell are you doing?”

“Hold on,” Margaret said. Amused by Eddie’s confusion, she smiled and shouted, “Got it!” She moved back and held up a metal flange nut.

“What on earth?” Eddie repeated, knowing that he sounded like his mother, imagining his sisters’ voices mocking his inflection.

Margaret reached up and popped the clasp off the back hinge of the toilet, reached in, and pulled out a long, threaded plastic fastener. She held it up to Eddie, smirking. “We’ll just take the seat with us.”

“Get that thing out of my face.” Eddie rocked forward to his knees, ready to help with his side. “How did you do that?” He leaned over, looking under the toilet as Margaret had. Margaret slid out of the space where she had wedged herself.

“What? You don’t know how to take off a toilet seat?”

“No,” he admitted with some defeat in his voice.

“Just reach under and feel for the nut. It comes off easily.”

Eddie reached under and found the hardware. “Ah,” he smirked, looking up at her. He removed the nut and bolt, mimicking the moves Margaret made on her side of the toilet.

They left the hardware on the floor and pulled the body back from the toilet, bringing the removed seat with them. A few audible cracks echoed against the bathroom tile as they forced the legs apart, sliding them out from the base of the toilet. The feet spread apart, making the man’s legs into a C, and then reunited to make an O. They laid the body on its side on the stretcher and covered it with a sheet, then a heavier blanket. They removed their gloves and plastic jumpsuits, placing them both in the hazardous waste bag attached to the stretcher, all completed in rhythmic silence.

As they began rolling the gurney out of the glowing white bathroom and into the darkened hall, Eddie glanced over and said, “Hey, did you see the bidet?”