It is freezing. She is wearing her long coat, the one her sister made. But the cold seems to enter from the pavement, soaking up through her bones, making her ache inside. She breathes heavily, the air brings cold into her body too. Each step needs effort, the plastic bag cuts into her hand.
The houses at the top of the hill are new. Young families live there. She likes to hear the shouts of the children, though they stay in the gardens at the back. Her own children used to play in the street. Tommy built a go-kart once, took it up the road on a spring day. Lay flat on the planks, rolled down the hill while the others screamed with laughter. Crashed in a heap of dust and blood and grins.
Suddenly, slipping. The bag is gone. Back of the head hits the ground. Shattering, exploding. Black.