The first time Marcus saw the drive-thru window, he was four years old, strapped into the back of his mom’s rust-spotted sedan. The window seemed impossibly high—a glowing square of warmth and smell floating above a world of pavement and exhaust. He could just see the edge of a white paper bag being passed down, like manna from a fluorescent heaven.
“What happened to him?” Marcus asked. drive thru window height
She nodded toward the back of the hearse. “He’s in there. We’re taking him to the funeral home in the morning. He always wanted to go in style.” The first time Marcus saw the drive-thru window,
That explanation lasted about fifteen years. he was four years old
“Tell your dad,” Marcus said, “the window’s not so bad from up here.”