When Patrick shoved Mateo, Juan reached down to his pocket. The gun felt heavy resting against his thigh.

Patrick reached up and pulled down an orange, shoving it in Mateo’s face. “You’re worth less than this. You know that? What it’s going to cost me to smuggle in a new ladder is coming out of your wages. You comprende?”

Patrick began to peel the mandarin with his hands. Each peel he removed, he then whipped at Mateo. “Just consider each one of these peels a dollar not in your pocket. One, two, three. Get up that damn tree! Climb it boy!”

With a swift move of his leg, he kicked Mateo towards the tree, chomping into the orange.

Juan had seen Patrick do it before. It horrified him each time Patrick swallowed the mini fruits whole. The farmer was clearly proud of his ability to do so. Juan imagined the fruit slipping past Patrick’s tongue, causing him to choke. He thought about it having a bitter taste, perhaps because of a white mold on the inside. Or better yet, a black widow spider had chosen that particular fruit and was at this moment about to strike the inside of the farmer’s cheek.

Juan pictured the mandarin as a tiny sun, fiery to the touch.

Patrick clutched his throat and gasped. First it was just his left hand, but then his right flew up as well. Juan saw a bit of Patrick’s tongue emerge. Was it scorched black?

Juan dropped the orange in his own hand when the smoke began to leak from Patrick’s mouth. When the black mark began to show between his sausage fingers on his even fatter throat, Juan began to rapidly climb down. By the time he’d reached the ground, Patrick was already lying in the grass, rolling around like a pig in the dirt.

Juan and the others rushed over, horrified at the smell of singeing flesh. Patrick’s neck was opening up, burning from the inside out.

“Help me,” he gasped, unable to stop the widening hole. They saw a flash of the trachea, and for a moment, a bit of flame from inside his throat. His eyes bulging, Patrick thrashed to his side, and then stopped moving.

They all scooted back as a small, completely burnt orange rolled from the gaping hole in the dead man’s throat.

For several moments, they stood in silent astonishment. Then Mateo was moving, yelling for the others to help move Patrick’s body into the back of the truck. “We dump him,” Mateo ordered. “Close to where the fires are burning! No one will ever know!”

Juan could only watch them carry the body, his hand struggling to make the sign of the cross. His heart was heavier than the untouched pistol in his pocket.