When the first coffin is lowered into the sea, Deedee is struck with an impulse: an itch to sanctify these deaths.

“Hell,” she breathes, “There’s more than ten men here.”

A prayer she has not spoken since far before she became Deedee comes to her lips, and she extends her arm in a gesture towards the fallen that one could be forgiven for thinking was a geek’s sci fi reference.

“Yitgadal, v’yitkadash, sh’mei raba b’alma; di-v’ra chirutei, v’yamlich malchutei, b’chayeichon…”