“Amarjeet, get us more water,” Jivan directed in Punjabi. The workers formed a circle around Alejandro and Ángel. The fair-skinned girl knelt beside them.

“You do not watch your people!” Jivan said to the foreman. “Has he been ill?”

“He has a mouth to speak! I told him this morning that he is an old man. That it would be too hard for him to work today,” the foreman said.

A few moments later, Karak appeared in the doorway.

The old man made a small noise, a short intake of breath. His shirt was open now, revealing deep creases carved by years in the sun. His body told the stories that he would not tell himself, that the others did not know: an ancient scar on a forearm from a rattlesnake’s bite, a line chiseled on the belly by a Villista’s blade. Alejandro took off his own bandana, wet it, and wiped Ángel’s face and chest. The skin was dry, red. His chest heaved.

“Is he your kin?” Jivan asked Alejandro in Spanish.

“He is a friend. Ángel Cruz. He told us of this job with you.”

The foreman, Carlos Guerroro, stood to the side, gripping his sombrero in his hands, his face stoic.

“It is not right,” the girl said, crossing herself. Her eyes were tear-filled, luminous. Carlos was watching her intensely. He did not care about Ángel Cruz, Ram thought, but he cared about the girl.

“It is not right,” agreed Jivan. “Where is his family?”

“His nephew lives in the barrio,” Alejandro said. He gave Jivan the man’s name.

Alejandro’s wet rag did not revive Ángel Cruz. Jivan felt the skin on his forehead, on his neck and hand. “Karak, go and get the doctor,” he ordered in Punjabi.

Karak was standing beyond the circle of people. “Let us wait and see,” he answered. “Perhaps he will awaken.”

“If Karak does not go, I will,” Ram said. Karak glared at him. But Ram had touched the man’s skin, had seen the anguish on his face when he collapsed.

Jivan hesitated. “The doctor knows Karak,” he finally said.

Ram’s face flushed. Didn’t the doctor know Ram too? He stared at the girl, kneeling now near the fallen man, wiping his forehead. She had taken off her sombrero and the bandana covering her mouth; she fingered a string of wooden beads in her hands. Her lips quivered as she whispered the prayers, her eyes luminous. Her hand brushed the crucifix that hung at her neck.

Ram looked away and saw that Karak was staring at her too.

Amarjeet appeared with the saddled mare. “Ride to the barrio and tell his nephew too,” Jivan commanded. Ram could see Karak clench his jaw, angry but compliant. He mounted quickly and rode off at a gallop.