They worked in a factory, then were missing,
Snitched on by a rat, a saying our parents found
To talk about a slaying. It always made me think
Of hunting dogs—noses scattered to the ground
Like metal detectors. Once that family had run,
The way prey changes fields to flee predators,
It was our father’s turn. They led him to a waiting
Bakkie, their walkie-talkies chattering one by one.

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PMU