You witnessed her murder on the end of our street. Your feet were in the road but your body was in the yard. I was inside our house, crouched like a cloud. Now he’s a widow, you said, pointing to the man who watched his wife being carted away. We went to the funeral in their back yard. Everyone was there, even the dead wife. She was floating over her coffin like some type of goblin we trusted. An antelope in the background leaned against the fence. After the funeral, authorities asked for you to come in for questioning and ended up taking your mug shot. Now you cough without a bonnet. Now you claw at the attic’s moon. Too soon, the body was gone and we were back to talking about lawn darts and starter homes. I was alone. You were alone. We held hands.