This isn’t the first time I’ve stood in a ditch, stick in hand, poking a dead body. But it’s never been a human one before.
“How did he get there?” my sister whispers, unable to suppress a hint of excitement.
“Haven’t the foggiest” I reply truthfully, as I liberate him of his velvet jacket and slip it on over my tattered hoody.
We go back to walking in silence, each step taking us further from home. Steady rain sets in.
“Poor fella’s gonna get soaked” my sister bemoans.
I turn to her, a glint in my eye: “He needs a good wash.”
She frowns, but doesn’t say anything. We keep moving, leaving behind our home, our past, our pain. Crimson specks drip off my new jacket and stain the route along which we’ll never return.