The Mexicans gathered near the jackrabbit rock before the sun rose, before Jivan called them. Kishen had given them eggs from the coop and the women had cooked them quickly on their stove, boiled coffee and poured it into tin cups in the morning dark. It was cold now but they were dressed for the midday sun: loose pants, long sleeves, gloves, and wide-brimmed hats. The women’s faded skirts fluttered in the predawn gray. The sun broke over the horizon. Immediately, the air warmed. Emerald rows alternated with lines of sandy loam that converged in the distance. The workers spread out to the first rows of plants, seated themselves on the measured space between them. Leaves huddled near the ground and shifted in the tepid breeze. Ram pulled on a pair of gloves that he had found in a corner of the packing shed. The musky smell of the fruit filled his nostrils and satiated him.

“Those will not be strong enough,” Karak said.

“No matter,” Ram said. He did not think that harvesting cantaloupe would be as difficult as picking cotton or cutting and bunching wheat.

Dastars and sombreros dotted the field; Hindustanees and Mexicans bent low and removed the brush covering each fruit. Jivan had told Ram that it was a technique that Tomoya had perfected; it hastened the ripening process, prevented the sun from burning the cantaloupe’s skin. He had shared the technique with Jivan only after Amarjeet and Haruo had become friends.

The workers walked the rows with sacks slung behind them, bending low, twisting and pulling the melons. The east side of the field was not yet ripe and fruit was left on the vine. Other fruit was not at full slip but Karak told the pickers to break it off anyway, it was still ripe enough to pass inspection. Ram felt bad for Jivan and Karak; any fruit that could not be easily twisted off was not at its sweetest. Would the agricultural inspectors comment on this? He did not know. When a bag was filled, the picker walked to the waiting crates and pulled the drawstring at the bottom, gently emptying the fruit.

Later, the March sun beat down on them, slowing their movements, scalding bare skin. Bandanas were tied to shield eyes from perspiration. Sweat poured down temples, necks, backs of thighs. Kishen arrived with jugs of water laced with lemon juice and sugar. Leela followed her mother, stared wide-eyed at the workers, handing out cups. Gracias, gracias chiquita.