Backpack.

We could not resist looking through the window, even though we knew that nothing had changed.

“I wonder why he chose that time of day. What was going through his mind?”

Traffic was moving again. The line of police cars had dispersed.

“Thank goodness no patients were here when it happened.”

The highway patrol had not yet removed the orange traffic cones.

“It’s amazing that none of us saw him do it. We were all here. If I saw it, I would have called it a day and gone home.”

The van marked “CORONER” slowed down and parked in the shoulder.

“He must have hit a car. You know how bad morning traffic is. Can you imagine what that must have been like for the driver?”

Pedestrians on the overpass kept walking. None of them looked down over the railing.

“This is awful.”

Covering the mass on the freeway was a yellow tarp. It flapped as cars drove past.

“I wonder what happened that made him want to do that. How hopeless he must have felt.”

Two men picked up the body wrapped in the yellow tarp. They loaded it onto the stretcher.

“We don’t know. He might have been hearing voices telling him to jump. He might have been drunk. We will never know.”

The lights of the van glowed red before it merged into traffic. If there were stains on the road, they were too small to see.

“I’m glad that we still feel something when someone commits suicide.”

We stood in silence, still gazing out the window.

Inside the area bounded by the orange cones was a crumpled backpack. That was all that remained.