In between muttering curses at the funeral home’s abysmal Wi‑­Fi, I consider if hiding in a supply closet to work during my brother’s wake makes me a terrible sister.

“Well, you didn’t want a funeral anyway, did you?” I whisper to the shelves of cleaning products, as if Josh is a ghost, invisibly sitting next to the bottles of lemon-scented floor polish. “You wanted us to rent a booze cruise and smash piñatas with your face on them.”

My brother couldn’t stand somberness. He was the funny one. A natural comedian who could take the darkest moment and make a joke that would have you laughing while the world around you was a shit show.

Like right now. If only he was here.

But if Josh was here, then there’d be no need for an ­over-​­the-­top mourning ritual he never asked for.

If there is an afterlife where he’s floating around, Josh is dying all over again, but this time from laughter, watching me sit on a half-empty box of toilet paper rolls as I try to put out a digital fire at work, all while wearing itchy tights I scratched so hard that I tore a hole in the left ass cheek.

“You’re welcome,” I say to my laptop as my updated report finally sends, not sure if I’m talking to my boss on the other side of the country or to the specter of my brother. Probably both.

And just when I’m sure I’ve gotten away with my sneaky errand and can rejoin the crowd of mourners filling the building, the closet door opens.

I squeak in surprise at the sudden intrusion and lean back, which is a mistake because that puts my butt on the empty half of the box. The cardboard lid collapses inward, taking me with it. I fold at the waist, laptop smashing against my chest, pantyhose-covered legs shooting straight up in the air.

This day got worse. I didn’t think that was possible.