Jedediah Mourning ran his tongue over the black stump where a molar used to sit and decided he would not wait for the next death in Gritstown. He sat at his workbench in the mortuary, chisel in one hand, a knob of pine in the other, carving a tooth. Six finished ones stood in a row on the felt: crown, root, and all, sanded smooth as river stones. He held one up to the lamp and compared it to the rotten specimen in his own jaw. Close enough. A grieving family across town had cornered the preacher that afternoon and demanded an open casket for their boy, the only fresh corpse for fifty miles. Jedediah had nodded and offered his condolences and priced the pine. Then he had come home and started whittling. If the mourners wanted to see the boy's face, they would see a face. They would not see the gums. He worked past sundown. The chisel bit, curls of pale wood dropped to the floor, and the row grew to a full set. He wrapped the carved teeth in a square of muslin and set them beside his pliers. Tomorrow the body would arrive on a flatbed, washed and stiff, and the family would come at noon to sit with it before the lid closed. Jedediah would have two hours alone with the boy first. He would pull what he needed, pack the sockets with cotton, and tuck the wooden set behind the closed lips. A corpse did not smile at its own viewing. No one would look past the powdered cheeks. He blew sawdust off the muslin bundle and slid it into his apron pocket. The stump in his jaw throbbed once, hard, as if it already knew.