A boy stood in front of a tombstone. The narrow gray slab jutted out of the ground like an enormous wall that would have cleaved the sun in half if not for the sea of clouds already shaking their raindrops out over the earth. Dozens of people came and went, offering their roses and goodbyes to the tomb, sliding their condolences and checks to the widow, dropping their smiles and hair ruffles to the boy. They all came up with something to say. “He was a good man” this or “He would be proud” that, like the silence between sobs had to be filled with words before it went on too long. The boy shrugged.

A snail snuck up the side of the stone. The boy spotted it while some older man was speaking about tough times and raising yourself. He traced the path it took, watched it carve its way through the waterfalls streaming down the slab. The widow thanked the man as he left. Another came to replace him. The snail trudged on, slinking higher and higher, tracing the indented lettering out. Someone asked him a question, rested a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged. The hand let go. The snail climbed higher, running from whatever snail mafia it owed money to on the ground. Did it leave its family behind, crying in the rain like the giants above? Its name was Angelo, the boy decided, and he had a wife and two kids. Angelo was on the run from the mob and the cops; he played both sides and lost twice as hard, and fled up a mountain to save his own life.

Another person. Another question. Another shrug. Platitudes, then goodbyes, then Angelo was halfway up, the fuzz climbing up behind him, but it was time to go. The widow took the boy’s shoulder and steered him away, towards a black car. She bawled and sobbed and cried, blowing her snot into a tissue and wiping her eyes with it. The boy sidled into the seat as the widow took out another tissue and wiped his nonexistent tears. “You’re so strong,” and he turned his head away, and tried to spy the snail at the top as the grave shrank into the distance.