It's an "S" not a "Z"

I glared up at the replacement minister—the stranger—who was conducting the funeral service for my grandma. She’d mispronounced her name. Again. She didn’t notice my look. I don’t think anyone did. Only a few people could’ve seen my face, anyway, from where I was sitting. I was in the front right corner of the chapel—exactly where I’d sat just three weeks earlier for my grandfather’s funeral.

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