They stood at the corner of an alfalfa field that lay in neat strips of vibrant green and chocolate brown. On one side lay the road they had just traveled, on the other, sand and scrub stretched, uninterrupted, to the west. Gazing out at the horizon, the endless sky, the white slivers of cloud above Mount Signal, Ram forgot about his unsettled stomach. He had seen this moment before, felt this heat before, smelled the sandy loam and dust-wind since he was a child. For a moment, the sky spun above him, but it was not only dizziness that he felt. If he looked past Karak’s dastar, past this sparse cluster of trees, he would see his uncle’s farm near the edge of the lower Chenab Canal. Water running from Himalayan snow and Shivalik rains, thundering, tremendous, toward the Indus River and the Arabian Sea. At the southeast corner of his uncle’s land stood this same mesquite tree that sheltered tired travelers. The village women would send them water in tin cups, rotis and chole served on leaves. On the far side, in blessed privacy, stood the hut where he and Padma spent their nights. A gust of wind lifted sand into Ram’s eyes. His vision skewed; he saw a single point of light surrounded by darkness.

“THIS IS WHERE IT STARTS—the boundary,” Karak said, pointing to a small flag set in the dirt. He had not seemed to notice Ram’s frailness. “That land belongs to Eggenberger but was just leased to Roubillard, who came out from Louisiana. Eggenberger tells me that Roubillard wants to try cotton too.”

Karak was disturbed by something; Ram could sense that. Karak pointed to figures in the distance, a team of mules pulling an implement, a cluster of men around them. “The water delivery ditch is being dug there. This land will be in great demand very soon.” Karak shaded the sun from his eyes. “The most important thing is land, bhai,” he said. “There is no other way to have wealth or to be settled. In Ludhiana, my father had good land. Very good land.”

“Then why did you leave Punjab?” Ram had known the man for almost a year and a half, and he did not know the answer to this question.

“The rains failed for two years in a row, but still the British government was taxing us. My father took a mortgage, but it did not go well. We lost everything. Only choice for me was joining the army.” Karak spoke lightly, as if that did not matter. “But this land can make us rich, Ram. The ditch will come right here, you see, right on the border. The soil has tested to be good for cotton. We must only level the land and plant it.”