Elephant in the Living Room

My son and I were living together. We were sleeping on an air mattress on the floor in the living room. The truck containing the body of his friend who had committed suicide was propped up on its back tires a few feet in front of us. I hadn't looked in the cabin of the truck. I knew what the body would look like after three days in the hot sun, bloated, straining the seams of his shirt and pants, blackening, the lips like a sucker fish's. The air mattress jolted as my son crawled back on top of it. "Where'd you go?" "I bought a battery to keep the hazard lights," which were blue, "on," he said, laughing. They blinked through the night. I called out that I didn't like the truck there and woke myself up. I told myself it was just a dream, but with my eyes closed saw it all, "That is your place and the truck is there", and had to open my eyes and look around to convince myself it was not.