A man sits on the edge of a bed with his hands together, looking into the distance. It is a white bed frame, like a bleached skeleton, in a field of others.
It has been raining and now there are large puddles. The soil is orange. In the distance are walls. He seems to be waiting. Perhaps he moves the beds, the bodies, or the supplies. He wears no gloves, no mask. Perhaps he waits for someone, or no one, if it is too late. Perhaps he waits, as we all wait, when there is nothing else left to do.