The Sitter

When she talks to me she looks straight up, like she’s addressing someone who’s suspended from the ceiling.
Her shoulders slump, painfully sun burnt.
I’ve run out of questions to ask. My face flushes from time to time and I’ve had to pee since I started this interrogation two hours ago.
She won’t look at me and I have lost the nerve to demand that she does.
I look out the window. A white tarp has been tossed over the three small bodies. A foot is exposed on the left side. I wonder where the sneaker he was wearing is.