He stood behind the faux-velvet ropes, impatiently waiting his turn. The mutants behind the counter harangued the geriatric cases for using the wrong paper to wrap boxes of already stale cookies for grandchildren away at college. A clerk with three shades of greasy gray hair hollered “Next!” from the end of the counter. He stepped up and silently handed over the missed delivery slip. Frustrated by the lack of non-compliance about which to berate him, the mutant shuffled through the swinging doors and returned with a small box. He signed hurriedly and left with his grandfather’s ashes under his arm.