“Yarmark, are you sitting down?”

“Lay off. It’s almost time to go home, and this has been a total fucking waste of day.”

“Stand up,” Somers said, pushing toward the edge of his section, marked by a stake with a neon tassel. “Right now, Yarmark, get on your feet.”

Yarmark got up. Like Russell, he was skinny, a cluster of blackheads on either side of the bridge of his nose. His spikey hairstyle, which he probably thought made him look tough, had melted in the heat, and now the dark strands drooped over his forehead. He kept scrubbing his hands on his uniform.

“You’ve got a job to do.”

“Come on. I’m done for the day, man. I’m wiped out.”

“Finish your section,” Somers said, turning to retrace his steps.

“This is such bullshit.”

Somers stopped. He looked back. “I don’t think I heard what I thought I just heard.”

Yarmark flushed, but he said, “Nobody came back here. Nobody’s been back here in forever. Look at the weeds, man. You and I are the only ones who’ve been walking around back here. This place is totally abandoned, and this is a waste of time. It’s stupid. We should be out there doing this the right way, for fuck’s sake.”

“What’s the right way?” Somers said.

“Not wasting our time picking up cans like we’re a fucking chain gang doing road clean up.”

“You’re new,” Somers said, “so I’m going to forget what I saw today in the jail and do you a favor. This is the job. Whether you’re in uniform or not, whether you’re on traffic or a detective or a lieutenant or chief. You do unpleasant work, you do it for no money, and you do it even when you don’t want to. You do it because nobody else will and because it needs to be done. That’s the whole job, Yarmark. Anybody who tells you otherwise is either lying or bad police. If that’s not what you signed up for, I get it. No hard feelings. But clock out, turn in your badge, and don’t come back tomorrow. You’ll be happier in the long run.”

Yarmark tried to hold his gaze and failed; as his gaze slid to the ground, he muttered, “Fucking bullshit, picking up shit that doesn’t matter, fucking shit work.”

“How do you know it doesn’t matter?” Somers snapped. “You’re some kind of genius? How do you know that the killer didn’t lose something, drop something, forget something? How do you know an animal didn’t pick something up and carry it over here? Or the wind? Shut your mouth and do your job. I don’t want to hear another word. When you finish your section, you come tell me. I’ll let you know when you’re off duty.”

Yarmark’s face was an ugly red, and his eyes came up long enough to stab daggers at Somers. Somers stood there, the breeze tickling the back of his neck, a seed-heavy stalk of grass bending to brush the inside of his palm. Every breath was heavy with the smell of broken vegetation and sunscreen.