The run-off from the constant, thin rain spilled in a lop-sided serration, a shimmer off the gutterless edge of the lakeside roof above the window where they sat. Out the window only a wedge of unfettered light opened to the lake through the boxy tangle of dingy tarpaper-sided rental cottages which sat above the wider lawn and beach of the refugees’ landlord and sponsor. The patch of water outside the window was mottled with the rain as if fish were idly feeding fly hatch.
She had sent her husband back out immediately, with their son and his, into the rain and (he’d hoped) back to the dry space and lakeside vantage of his place. Their boy looked up from beneath blond bangs, which she smoothed from his eyes with long fingers, before kissing him on the forehead. The husband she patted gently on his cheek as one would an old horse. He blinked.
Still there was no mistaking the sharpness of her tone.
“You will allow me this interview undisturbed, if you please. There is much to talk about and we will let you know when we are concluded.”