Now, it was different. He had killed a man. There had been a moment of rage when he had not known what he was doing. Even now, he did not know, exactly, what happened. Only that Clive had arrived and stood in the shed near the door. That Hitchcock was with them. That Karak had been breaking up wood to make more crates, because Consolidated’s workers had taken the ones that he and Ram had made.

If they were by themselves, Clive and Karak would be civil, decent, understand that they were both men. But with Hitchcock present, Clive could pull that gun out of his holster and point it at Karak. That same gun that he had shown off to Karak years before, when he had announced his engagement to his wife, drinking Karak’s whiskey in Jivan’s yard. Karak had held that gun then—pearl inlay in the grip, Clive’s initials engraved on the barrel—he had felt the weight of it in his hand. With Hitchcock there, Clive could laugh at Karak. He could tell Karak to take his blanket and go home.

A glimmer of sunlight had caught the revolver’s barrel, bounced off the perfect circle of its muzzle.

They say rage blinds one, but it is not true. Rage takes away more than sight. It robs hearing and taste, feeling and reason, leaving only the ancient scent of fear and anger and the need to destroy. Karak had wrapped his hands around the axe’s wooden handle. The wood had felt solid, heavy, satisfying. And when he lifted it to swing—that had felt good too. The man collapsed, his life bled out on the land Karak knew so well, where the dirt turned to sand, where the shadow of the packing shed appeared in late afternoon. Where, when the wind blew from the northwest, he could smell Kishen Kaur’s cooking across the unbroken distance.

Karak had not been crazy when he had killed Clive. He would not absolve the Anglos of their guilt by accepting that. He had been enraged because they threatened his life, his existence. There was a difference.

Now, strangely, he felt closer to Clive than ever. He felt the man inside him, like someone he had loved. As if he would step through the doorway soon, to visit. What’s that hellfire got into you out there? Clive would say, laughing his raspy laugh. Why you acting different when Hitchcock is near? Karak would ask, handing him a glass of whiskey. Was he dead? Had he killed him? He could not clear his head.

At the end of the hallway, Karak heard the sound of the wooden door scraping against the floor. He heard Sheriff Fielding’s voice, then Ram’s, and a woman’s muffled answer. The door closed again.