A shredded plastic bag flutters the highway's edge.
I don't have time to work out my daughter's anxiety: three cop cars and an ambulance ahead. Navigating the tight path past this broken steel and glass takes all my concentration.
“It's a piece of garbage, sweetie.”
“No, Mummy. It's a ghost.”
“Well. Pray for it,” I suggest, distracted.
Her whispering makes me smile.
“Look! Oh, Mummy, look!”
The bag rises, straight up.
“See? The wind took it,” I console her, rolling down my window to speak to the cop.
There is no wind blowing.