“Where are you going to drive?”

“To hell,” Karak mumbled. Then, as he turned away, “It does not matter; I’ll be back.”

Ram watched as Karak climbed into the car. The food sat uncomfortably in his stomach. He wished he had not eaten at all.

“Bad business,” Jivan said. He sucked his teeth. Suddenly, a wave of weariness overtook Ram. He said goodbye to Jivan and Kishen and walked to his cot to lie down. He was grateful to close his eyes, to escape, for just a moment.

HE SLEPT MORE DEEPLY THAN HE MEANT TO. He regained consciousness slowly, lying on his side in the heat. Ram’s throat was dry. His shirt clung to his stomach, his back. The air about him did not move. The ramada’s shadow lay sharply outlined against the dirt. The cow lowed from her stall. Then a shriek shattered the stillness. An animal sound, high and desperate, like a flash of light in darkness. He leaped up in a sweat. He could not breathe.

Shouts and screams were coming from the packing shed. Ram ran toward them. A man dashed out of the shed door, face contorted, grotesque, wielding something high above his head. It was Karak. A form moved on the ground nearby. Clothing and hair and dirt splashed red. A deep moan emanated from it, loud and mournful. Farther away, a man limped, desperate, pitiful, toward a familiar cream car. Karak ran for him, uttering sounds that were not words. Ram did not understand. A scarlet puddle grew around the form near the shed, then legs and arms flailed and the torso was still.

“Oye! Karak!” Ram yelled, racing to him as the packers scattered, as the workers in the field straightened up to see. He heard his own voice rise, loud and commanding. “Oye! Oye!” Later, he would wonder how he was aware of all this: Adela’s skirt fluttering past, Jivan and Kishen approaching from a distance; Alejandro’s men retreating to their camp.

Ram reached Karak and leaped at him, grasping for his shoulder, his leg, his torso, any way to pull him to the ground. In their combined fall, the axe was flung away. Ram had not considered its blade, and then he was on top of Karak, forcing him down. But he could not keep hold of him; his body slid on Karak’s slick back. The scent of guts and blood clogged his nostrils. Ram’s hands could not grasp him. He hit Karak and Karak hit him back, and in the confusion, Ram did not see that the limping man had reached the cream motorcar, that he was stooping at the front, cranking the rod. The engine spit and turned over, loud and assuring. Ram looked up to see Hitchcock scrambling into the driver’s seat. His contorted face flashed in the windshield as the vehicle lurched off, erratic, its engine firing furiously.