“We will rise at one A.M. Amarjeet, hitch up all three wagons by then.”

“Why so early?” Amarjeet asked.

“Because that is my wish.”

Later, when they lay down on their cots to sleep, Ram asked Karak, “How did you come to know Roubillard?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Karak said. “I know the bloody bastard, that is enough.”

RAM WOKE AT ONE O’CLOCK to the sound of Amarjeet hitching up the mules. Jivan walked past his cot fully dressed, holding a lamp. Ram sat up quickly. “Bhai-ji, I will be ready in a minute.” This work was for his own crop, but he could see that Jivan cared about it as much as he.

Ram could feel the wind blowing up dust in darkness. In the animal shed, the mare whinnied. Karak climbed on the driver’s seat of the lead wagon, his dastar sloppily tied and his beard tucked too loosely. Ram drove his wagon behind it. His body ached from the previous day, carting the cotton twenty-six miles, baking in the sun, the final humiliation at the end. They had accomplished nothing for all that effort. Two nights before he had written to Padma about picking the cotton, but he knew he would not tell her about the gin. Something about Roubillard’s chuckling at Smiley’s son left him without feeling. It reminded him of Hambelton. He was grateful that Amarjeet climbed into the seat next to him.

Kishen handed him a tiffin. It was warm and comforting in his palm. They did not speak. The wagon began to trundle forward. Ram opened his tiffin and ate the roti that he found there. Silently, he blessed her.

How different this trip was from the one yesterday, when they had set off in high spirits at dawn. They passed the same farms, silver and luminescent by the light of the three-quarters moon. At the Roubillard place, Karak spit on the side of the road. What good would it do? Ram thought.

The moon was still bright when they pulled off the dirt road to the gin. Karak brought his wagon right up to the shed, so that the mules’ noses touched the door.

“What do we do now, bhai-ji?” Ram asked, calling out to Jivan.

“We wait.”

Jivan’s mule snorted and brayed. In moments, they heard dogs barking, and soon after, Smiley came out, holding a lamp in one hand and a rifle in the other.

“Who’s there?”

“Singhs from Eggenberger farm,” Jivan called down from his seat on the wagon. “You told us, ‘Come early.’”

Smiley held the lamp up higher so he could see Jivan’s face.

“Tell me,” Jivan said, “is it early enough?”

“John Singh,” Smiley said. He lowered the lamp. “What d’ya men want?” They must have seemed menacing; there was a tremor in his voice.

“We have three loads to gin. Same as yesterday,” Karak said.