He heard the men calling to one another outside. Through the window, he saw they had rolled the piano up a ramp onto the wagon and tied it down, along with the new Victrola. The mules pulled forward under the weight. Karak had bought the piano through the Sears catalog when the store on Main Street would not sell to him. Rosa had played it every evening after the day’s work was done. Ram would hear the notes drifting through the space between the two houses, changing the air, making the farm—its people, animals, plantings—part of something grand and rich.

“Come and stay with us today, Rosita,” Ram said. “You can help Kishen in the kitchen. The children can play together.”

He helped her carry the twins to the Singhs’ home. Federico followed behind. Rosa had never needed an invitation and came to visit the Singhs almost every day. But he could see the gratitude in her eyes.

Karak arrived in the car that evening, after Rosa had returned home. Ram stayed away; one must spare a man humiliation whenever possible. After dark, he heard Karak’s yelling across the clear distance between the houses. Rosa shouted back. Their sounds were like animal noises. Ram sat up on his cot. Yellow light leaked from the windows of the Eggenberger house. On his own cot, Amarjeet was already asleep a few feet away. Karak and Rosa were shouting words—Spanish, Punjabi, English—but Ram could not make out a single one.

There was no moon and the stars were alarming, like needles piercing velvet sky. The mountains loomed. Through the dark he heard the crash of breaking glass. Ram leaped up, slipped on his shoes, and ran toward the house. Inside, he heard screaming and the distressed shrieks of children. He banged his palm against the door. “Karak! Karak!”

The sounds fell silent. The door opened slowly. Karak’s eyes locked on Ram’s, round and savage. His shirt was open at the collar and his chest heaved.

Blood thundered inside Ram’s head. Rosa was slumped on the floor, leaning against the chair in which she had sat that morning, miserable, holding her head in her hands. Pieces of glass lay near her.

“Bhai, I want to see the books,” Ram whispered in Punjabi, his gaze unwavering. “May I look at them?” Karak stepped away from the door, glaring at him for the lie. When he went to fetch the ledgers, Rosa began to sweep up the glass with her apron, her head bent. She did not look at Ram. Karak shoved the books into Ram’s hands and grabbed his jacket in one swift motion. The door slammed behind him. Ram bent to help Rosa. They heard the motorcar’s engine spark at full throttle, and the fading sound as it sped off.