He whipped back around, rifle at the ready, as the corpse twitched again—this time noticing something he had utterly missed the first time: a child’s shoe, filthy white with pink laces, protruding from beneath the stiff, dead form. A shoe which moved as he watched, attempting to conceal itself.
Someone was hiding beneath the body. A child—or a midget, he thought insanely, and lowered his rifle. The wind gusted and the blinds of a nearby window rattled. At last he said, “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” Flies buzzed about the dead man in the near total silence. “But hiding beneath a corpse is no place for a child, do you understand? You could get very, very sick. I’m sure your parents wouldn’t want that.”
What the hell are you even saying? he reprimanded himself, not knowing if he’d
