"Come meet your uncle Argyle," said the dark-skinned man with the pink lips in his Irish brogue.

He held the wide-eyed boy with a firm, dry grip as they walked slowly but assuredly to the morgue. The hallway was painted government blue with the pale, fluorescent light of interrogation. Nothing here was warm except the grip of his father.

The man on the table was considerably pale. His eyes were closed, and the rugged y-shaped sutures barely shown from underneath the crisp, white hospital linens. There were no blood stains through the sheets. The mortician did a 'nice' clinical job.

Their purpose was to identify, which would be easy, because the freckles of the boy matched those of the man in state. Their hair was fair, almost like wheat for the elder, nappy for the boy. Both were strawberry blond, or dirty blond or acid washed ginger.

And this was the habit of the Scotch Irish blacks. They took after their uncles, not their fathers, and they met important family members after they were dead. After this meeting, the life of the boy and his father would be interesting. The boy wanted to close the mouth of the man on the table. Someone left it open.