She tore up the wedding photo with swollen, stiff fingers. Finally, when the pieces were to her liking, she released a handful into the air, as high as her bird-like arm allowed. The shiny confetti rained down on her sheepskin slippers.
“No, Ouma. Tonight you’ll cry for that photo!” Anna’s voice was sharper than usual. Tears clouded the pale, almost see-through eyes gazing up at her.
Normally Ouma’s antics amused her. It was all this worry, the strained whispers in quiet corridors, made more ominous by the plastic visors guarding weary faces. They said it was just a precaution, nothing to worry about . . . yet.