Mila peered through the mesh of net curtains, frustrated by the hazy view. If she pushed them aside she might see better, but then she risked being seen and the very thought made her forehead damp with anxiety.
‘Jaap?’ she called behind her.
A pan clattered in the kitchen out back. Jaap’s way of telling her he was too busy to come running.
‘Jaap, that child’s in the street again,’ she called.
A boy of around seven or eight years of age. Dusty red and blue striped tee shirt, skinny legs poking from wide shorts, the knees sticking out like knots in lengths of string. He’d come every day for a week, stood in the middle of the dirt road for an hour before leaving.
A cupboard door slammed. ‘What do you want me to do about it?’
‘Tell me it’s not him,’ she muttered.