Kerem prides himself on three things: punctuality, discretion, and the fact that in eleven years at the Marigold Hall, he has never once mixed up an event. The whiteboard in his office says otherwise. Saturday, 2 p.m.: Yilmaz funeral. Saturday, 2 p.m.: Demir funeral. Saturday, 2 p.m.: Aksoy–Kaplan wedding, 180 guests, dove release, fog machine. It's Saturday. It's 1:15. The florist has delivered three hundred white lilies that could plausibly serve all three events, which is the only good news Kerem will receive today. The string quartet booked for the wedding is warming up with something that sounds alarmingly like a dirge. Two hearses and a limousine covered in ribbons are competing for the same loading bay, and the limo is losing. Kerem stands in the lobby with a clipboard, a microphone, and ninety minutes to do the impossible: keep two grieving families and one hysterical bride from ever discovering each other, using only the east corridor, the service kitchen, a folding partition with a broken wheel, and an intern named Baris who cries at funerals. All funerals. Including, historically, one rehearsal. The first guests arrive early. All three kinds.