A sharp inhale from customer service. Of course it’s hard for me to do this, she said, canceling a line, but I will do it.

It sounded as if she were giving a lethal injection to a suffering pet, but it was just a phone line, a number, a nothing. I smiled and rolled my eyes at Sara, who smiled back—and dear God, the smile of Sara, what a holy thing—but then I stopped smiling in order to meet this customer service representative in her funereal feeling.

Sometimes you have to just take it out back and put it out of its misery, I said.

There was a long silence on the line, then a hesitant and determined, Yes.

It’s OK, I said, trying to comfort her as she killed those digits. We’re doing this together. We’ll get through it. Sara raised her eyebrows and muffled a laugh, but I was deadpan, committed to the bit.

Moments later, when the customer service representative told me it was done, that the number was gone, that it was all over—did I hear a little jolt in her throat?—she asked if there was anything else she could do for me, anything at all, and I said no, there was nothing; then we solemnly wished each other well.