Pedro follows, closing the distance between them. Another string of cars blocks their way. When the indio ducks to pass beneath it, Pedro scrambles under the car right on his heels. He grabs the man’s arm, flips him onto his back, and presses a hand to his mouth. Lying on top of him, he uses the tip of his knife to poke a hole in his jugular.

The indio struggles, but there’s no chance of him squirming out from under Pedro’s bulk. Pedro fixes his lips to his neck. He smells cheap wine. The man eventually settles, and Pedro repositions him to keep the blood flowing. When the well runs dry, he keeps sucking, enjoying the warmth creeping through his body and the calm enveloping his brain after days of feeling antsy.

The yard bull plays his flashlight over a string of cars a couple of tracks away. Pedro waits until he’s gone before dragging the indio’s body from under the car and slinging it over his shoulder. He carries it to the other side of the yard, where another trail leads to a reservoir ringed by cottonwoods.

Once at the reservoir, he lays the body next to the water and removes its clothes. By the light of a fingernail moon he cuts open the belly of the corpse and scoops out the innards, tossing them into tall grass. Coyotes will eat them before dawn. The buzzing of a million cicadas in his ears, he gathers the biggest rocks he can find and fills the indio’s stomach cavity with them.

The water is warm as he walks out into the reservoir, towing the corpse behind him. The muddy bottom slopes quickly downward, and he lifts the body to keep it from sinking, carries it in his arms. When the water reaches his chin, he pushes off and keeps going, swimming now, kicking hard while bearing the dead man.

In the middle of the reservoir, he lets the body drag him down. When his toes touch mud, he looks up toward the tarnished silver shimmer of the surface. The water is ten feet deep here, deep enough nobody will ever find the indio. He releases the corpse. It sinks to the bottom, and he rockets back to the surface and swims to shore.

Back on the bank, Pedro dresses and turns for a last look at the reservoir. The water is calm again, faintly reflecting the moon, the stars, and the overarching trees. It’s not so bad. There are worse spots the indio could have ended up.

The fireworks stand, a trailer parked in an empty lot, is locked up for the night. Yuma and Real Deal park across the road. Yuma fetches her screwdriver, and Real Deal doesn’t bother to tell her what a stupid idea this is. She’s drunk now, which only makes her more stubborn. He gets off his bike and follows her to the trailer.