There was nothing going on around the outhouse, which was isolated for good reason. Still, I didn’t want to draw attention. So I figured I’d do it inside. Which wouldn’t smell good. But wouldn’t take long, given I had no sympathy for the guy, wounded or not. I walked around the other side and looked in through a space between wood slats. He was the only customer. I saw him squatting at the hole. I had my own sanitary considerations. So I counted to thirty in my head, to let him get the job done. Then I walked back around to the entrance and into the squalid room.

There were four holes in the ground. They were connected by a trench. That was it. Flies buzzed around incessantly. The guy was squatting over one of the holes. He was vulnerable, holding up his pants carefully. I said, “Remember me?” And kicked him in the face.

The top of my hiking boot connected with his nose at an awkward angle. Which sent him over onto his back, where his first instinct was to pull up his pants, even before attending to his broken nose. By the time the guy’s hands flew to his face, my boot was on his neck. I applied a little weight. He gurgled. I said, “Whatever else you do, don’t touch me.” Blood flowed down and mixed with the gunk on the ground. It was too late for him to keep his clothes clean. But it wasn’t too late for me. I said, “If I get dirty you’re going to drown in that hole. You might drown in that hole anyway. But if I get even a single drop of shit on me it’s a certainty.”

The guy was only now beginning to register who I was. Back somewhere in the far reaches of his brain was a memory of my face, associated with the sharp pain and humiliation of his wrist being snapped. It was a distant memory to be sure. But he made the connection. His eyes darted left and right, which was like a tell. The wheels and cogs in his mind were turning over. Pulleys and axle rods were getting into gear and sending messages to his mouth.

He managed to shake his head left to right under the boot. “Oh no man, it was a mistake. It wasn’t supposed to be you.”

“I’m not too sore about it and you’ve already been punished.”

“So what do you want?”

“Let’s start with this. What is this?”

“What do you mean, this?”

“The migrants.”

He spit blood to the side. “You don’t want to mess with this. Just leave it alone.”

I pushed the boot into the soft part of his throat. He struggled to breathe. Veins stuck out. I released a little. “How often do you make the run?”

“Every other day. Sometimes once a week. Depends.”