It was just a thought.

"Gab, look!" Autumn yelled, but she didn't need to. I already saw. Thick, mucus-like amniotic fluid seeped out of the cracked, once protective shell and onto the grass, weighing the blades down with the snotty substance. The snotty substance which once protected life. The life that was laying in between the shards of shell and the dewy summer grass. Yellow feathers were matted down against his skeletal, premature body with the same phlegmy liquid soaking the grass. The dirt from the sole of my light up Barbie sneakers left its print on the off-white freckled shell; there was no denying I had done it. Autumn looked up at me, her eyes, filled with blame and despair, brimmed with tears that inevitably spilled over the barrier of her lashes and down her rosy, full cheeks. "You killed it," she said, tears breaking through her words. "I didn't do anything," I retorted. "We killed it. And it wasn't even our fault. Not really anyway. How were we s'posed to know there was something inside it? And really, how were we? I mean, I knew ducks were born inside of eggs, but I didn't know this egg in particular had one in it. I thought it was one of the eggs Mommom makes for breakfast. Only bigger. And freckly. Alright, I guess the spots should have been a sign. And I don't even know why I wanted to stomp it in the first place. I just...did. And now there it was. All crumpled and wet and well, dead. And it was all my fault. No. All our fault. She stomped it too. Right after I did. And then we saw. We crouched down around it, protectively. Guarding the evidence, our young brains trying as hard as they could to concoct some sort of plan. Tears began falling freely off of Autumn's lashes, snot mingled with tears dripped off her upper lip and onto the already soaked ground. "Stop crying," I spat, "You sound like a baby." That just made her cry harder, her blubbering creating a thick drool that dripped off her face with everything else. I lowered my voice urgently, "Shut up, Autumn. If you don't stop crying, Mom's gonna hear and come out to see what's going on. Do you want that, stupid? Do you want Mommy to come see what we did? " She shook her head, the wind catching her blonde, wispy hair, carrying her scent through the warm June air. Her sobs and blubbering lowered considerably. She used the hem of her strawberry printed tank top to wipe the majority of snot and drool from her face, sniffed up what she couldn't wipe, and said, "Whaddo you think we should do?" I stared at her, thinking, as she blinked away the last few straggling tears. "I guess, we should just cover it up. I don't want to pick it up." Her brow furrowed, her green eyes beneath it analyzing the duck corpse before us. "Cover it with what though? Leaves?" "No," I said immediately. "The wind's blowing. It'll blow the leaves off. We need something heavier. Gimme your jacket." At that, she began to cry more. "No, Gab, why don't we use yours?" "Be-CAUSE, Autumn! Because I'm the oldest, because I'm the smartest, because  I said! Gimme your jacket or we'll get caught. And I'll tell Mom you did it. And she'll believe me because I'm her favorite." Autumn's lips pursed, trying to block all the words she wanted to say back to me from coming out. Because I was right. I was the oldest. And though all of my other claims were as empty as the crushed shell on the grass, Autumn still listened to me simply because I was the oldest. And she was the nicest. She also seemed to be born with an awareness that I didn't grasp until much later in life: when we bicker, our heads get thicker; resolve matters quicker. Autumn was always one to take the high road and resolve the matter as quickly and efficiently as possible. I always liked to verify the fact that I was indeed right and she was in fact wrong. She always pursed her lips and nodded her head, assured deep down that while she may be younger, she quite possibly could be smarter. Even though I was in kindergarten with homework and stresses her little 3 year old mind couldn't fathom, she always had a much deeper understanding of things and was never so stupid as to let her pride interfere. She dutifully handed over the magenta and teal windbreaker my Mommom insisted she wear even though it was June, and I laid it over the corpse, the evidence, the Duck Doe, weighting the corners down with heavy rocks we gathered from the entrance of the forest. We stood up, brushing our hands off on the seats of our shorts, staring down at our handywork. "Looks pretty good to me," Autumn said. I scrunched my lips in thought. "Well," I said. "We'll need to think of something to say if they wonder why you're jacket is being held down by rocks in the middle of the yard, but it'll do for now. " Autumn nodded, then looked at me, her eyes filled with inspiration. "I know!" she exclaimed. "We'll just say it's a bed! You know, for all the wild bunnies that come into the yard!" I frowned, pretending to hate the idea, while jealousy swelled inside of my chest, wishing I had come up with it myself. I wanted to just brush it off as implausible and watch her head slump to her chest in disappointment but even I had to admit it was a pretty good idea, and given the circumstance (us being murderers,) I thought it wouldn't be too wise to excuse any good ideas, even if it wasn't created in my head. I shrugged my shoulders, "Yeah," I said nonchalantly. "Should work. Alright. Let's go in." She smiled, happy I approved her scheme, knowing how mad I was that I didn't think of it, smiling harder because of it. We looked once more at the mound of magenta in the yard. The wind would exhale, billowing up the center of it, making it look like a deformed magenta hot air balloon, and then it would inhale, and the thin windbreaker would cling to the shell beneath it, contouring its silhouette, disclosing itself to the world. We both inhaled deeply, inviting the warm, sweet air to tickle our lungs, and grasped each others' hands as we embarked back up the hill to our farmhouse. We left behind our evidence (my mom found it later and discarded of it for real,) but the guilt came in with the breeze and never left.