From the six inch concrete curb next to the road to the three steps at the front porch the walkway is a six-foot wide path of uneven red clay brick, bricks lay side by side on unpacked gray clay. Over the years the bricks had settled in soft spots. Some of the bricks had been pushed up by roots, in spots. Especially hardy grasses found places between the tightly spaced bricks and sent up a few short shoots that seldom survived the heat of the day.
Over all the walkway is smooth enough, a person can trip but it’s more of a choice than a necessity. The person, or the body of what had once been a person, did not trip; the blood pooling in one of the settled spots in the brick walkway tells a different story. She was thin, small, white, blonde. She dressed warm and well. She made an unremarkable brown hill at the upper end of the walkway; she had almost made it to the steps. Kids on their way to school caught the fur of her jacket, past a hedge of bushes, past trees and bushes, out of the corner of their eyes as they walked and played, if they saw her at all they saw a sleeping dog or a pile of leaves. She no longer cared, time could pass, flies could lay the eggs of their young, she no longer had cares.