Opposite me, separated by the sealed window, her dark eyes and mine lock in a gaze. We share similar golden skin, dark hair but her dress is soiled, ripped. Dirt streaks her face. Her bare feet stand on piles of refuse amidst shanties made of cast off wood, plastic, corrugated aluminum.
“Huh. Huh,” I whimper leaning against the solid warmth of Papa’s hand. Traffic has halted our car. The scents of leather upholstery, air conditioning, aftershave, and pipe tobacco comfort me; the smell garbage heap on the opposite side of that pane of glass cannot intrude. Her face reaches in through the glass; I touch my smooth cheek, my cheek not hers.
“She is poor,” Papa tells me. “Her mother and father don’t have enough money to feed her. She is searching for food.”
I want to look at his face, to see in his eyes the meaning of his words. But I must not look away and lean farther back against his hand to feel his touch.
“Maybe we can find a way to help her,” Papa says and leans forward to speak to the driver, Pablo.
The car begins to move again. Our opposite pairs of eyes remain tied together for a few seconds more.