On the east side of the field, Alejandro’s crew had filled a wagon full of crates with the morning’s harvest. It was parked far from the packing shed, behind their camp, and the workers were gathered around, as if protecting it. Ram felt a surge of gratitude. “Look,” Ram said. “We have that load and we will have at least another before all is done.” Karak sat on the car’s running board, gazed out into the field, and did not move.

The packing shed was still full of Clive’s crew. When Ram approached, four Filipino men stood inside, staring at him suspiciously. It was his shed, Ram thought. “I need water,” he said in Spanish. They said nothing. It was his olla, his water. He poured it into a tin cup and drank. An axe leaned against the wall. A saw, hammers, boxes of nails sat on a table. The men had been busy. More crates had been made, stacked all the way to the ceiling. “Where is Señor Clive?” Ram asked in Spanish.

“He left a few minutes ago,” one of the men said. “He said he would return soon.” Ram felt a slight alarm but did not know why. The four men lingered, staring at him silently, although their crewmates had already stopped work to eat.

When Ram returned to Karak he saw Jivan approaching too. Together, they coaxed Karak up, and the three of them walked toward Jivan’s house.

“Kishen Kaur says that we will not solve this problem on an empty stomach,” Jivan said. “I agree with her.” He smiled faintly, but his voice was sad.

As they walked, they passed Alejandro’s camp. Adela was crouched near the kerosene stove by a tent, making tortillas, and the men sat eating nearby. Ram felt a pang of jealousy. At Jivan’s home he turned back to see her, to see the land. There was an unbroken view to Consolidated’s motorized truck, parked with authority near their packing shed. In the other direction, mules stood hitched to the Singhs’ wagons, their heads slung low. The midday sun beat down on them.

THEY SAT AT THE TABLE on Jivan’s porch and ate without speaking. Kishen brought out plates of fresh rotis and dal. The truth hung heavy in the air around them: they were being robbed, slowly and painfully, while they watched, knowing there could be no retribution. Karak did not look up from his meal. He ate vigorously, his jaw working, but his expression was vacant. He rose to leave before Kishen had sat down to eat.

“Where are you going?” Jivan asked. “To rest?”

“I will go for a drive. How can I sleep today?”

“That Hitchcock is one mean fellow,” Jivan said. “Everyone knows it. Our people and the Anglos too. Clive could not have worked for a worse person.”

Ram knew the words were meant in sympathy, but Karak did not answer, and neither did he.