The man I climb past to reach my window seat smells of sandalwood mixed with something herbaceous and fresh. It’s the kind of scent you buy in amber glass bottles from minimally lit shops; the kind that can somehow be simultaneously soothing and stimulating. The flight to Melbourne is little more than an hour long, and I’m glad I’ve squandered flying points for a seat in business class. It’s not where I usually sit, but the plane is full. I booked at the last-minute to attend a funeral: this isn’t a holiday, more the business of the living, I reason.

My neighbour isn’t young, but he’s not yet old either.* The skin on his face is like a walnut shell buffed to a pearly shine. His frame is spare in a way that makes me think he is a runner who practises yoga and mindfulness and committed to veganism some time ago. I’m mostly right. He works in borders and biosecurity, and he is traveling south to sit on a panel that will appoint someone to a senior government job. It’s a rare work trip since he took leave six months ago to care for his terminally ill mother. He is interested in the different ways people approach death, he says. An old friend has recently died without rancour. His mother is another story.