By: Dee Rivers
She walks quickly into the copse. Her three children clutch her skirt, secure in its shoddy circumference. Their footfall stirs a cumulus of dust, litter flutters in their wake.
The mother does not glance toward the passing tourist bus. Her children do, though, bedazzled by its bright blue paint and curious about the staring eyes in faces framed by glass that keeps them weatherproofed.