Before meeting a client, Virginia Chang, an end-of-life doula, performs a ritual that she calls “becoming an empty vessel.” She closes her eyes, plants her feet on the ground, and holds her arms at her sides, palms up. She breathes deeply through her nose. To still her mind, she begins to quietly chant a Sanskrit mantra such as lokah samastah sukhino bhavantu—may all beings everywhere be happy and free. Then she starts to move, pushing her hands away from her body, raising them above her head, and lowering them again in a gesture of surrender. Because she does this on the streets of New York City, no one pays her any attention. Delivery guys squeeze by with their handcarts; kids dodge and weave on their scooters; dogs sniff near her ankles and move on. Chang is a slight woman in her early sixties, with graying hair cut into a long, straight bob. She likes to wear lacquered red clogs, stretchy black pants, and a thin scarf of turquoise or coral pink, even in the heat of summer. To be of use to the dying, she believes that she must first set aside the buzzing miscellany of thoughts and cares that constitutes “her shit,” and that is what her ritual helps her do.