“Depends on what?”

“On when they call me, man. I just do delivery.”

“Where do they get the migrants from?”

“Listen, I’m sorry about yesterday. I promise it was a mistake. Please, just leave it all alone. This is bigger than you or me. This is a tiny part of something that’s bigger than anyone. They’ll erase you and me like ants. Just let it go.”

“Just answer the question. Where do they get the migrants?”

“As far as I know they just come, eagerly, with pleasure. And they are happy to pay.”

“Who sent you to take out the guy with the blue shirt?”

Rat-face began to tear up. “You have to understand. They might still kill me for the mistake.”

“Who sent you?”

He cried real tears. “I can’t tell you because they would know that I had, and then it wouldn’t be just me, but my sister and my parents and maybe even cousins. They won’t stop.” I could see the resolve on his face. Which told me that there were worse things than drowning in a shit-filled hole in the ground. My boot pushed his neck into the dirt. I could have broken his neck if I had pushed any harder but I was feeling sorry for him. All that talk of his sister and parents and cousins had humanized rat-face.

“Empty your pockets.”

The guy choked and turned red. He looked horrified. I let up the pressure a little. He squeaked, “What?”

“Empty your pockets. Right there on the ground.”

He removed a money clip and a phone from his pocket. I took the money clip. About a hundred in cash and a neat little stack of business cards. They were the same card in multiples. Le Foxy Kebab.

“What’s Le Foxy Kebab.”

“Restaurant I work for.”

“Doing what?”

“I told you. Deliveries.”

“Deliveries in the blue van?”

“Motorbike. The van isn’t mine. I deliver with a bike.”

“You ever ride in the woods by the river?”

“Sure, everyone does.”

I put the cash and a business card in my pocket. Took my foot off his neck. The guy shook his head and spit blood. He looked at me with a good measure of hatred. I said, “And by the way, littering is an offense.” And dropped the phone and the money clip into a hole and walked out. I could hear him cursing as I took great big gulps of wonderful fresh air.

Away from the outhouse things were happening. People were organizing their meager belongings into some form of order. Migrants like these were the survivors, the strong ones who got through the sudden hell of war and breakdown. Which didn’t mean that they were well-meaning, or book smart, or community-minded. Just indicated creative pragmatism.