I wedge the Styrofoam cup between my legs and pull off the lid. I pick up the satin bag and pour the diamonds into my soda. The stones, ranging in size from grains of sand to corn kernels, collect in a pile on top of the ice. They shimmer in the sunlight, and then they sink without a trace into the brown liquid. I put the lid back on and hold the cup up, weighing it. The cup is heavier, but everything about it still looks normal.

I park my Jeep next to Marco’s Dodge Charger. There’s a film of desert dust over both our cars.

The shack looks like something left over from a nuclear war. The windows are all broken. The front door is missing. Most of the shingles have been yanked off the roof by wind. The walls are full of holes and covered in graffiti, as if teenagers had come out here and taken turns with sledgehammers and spray paint.

As I approach the building, I drink from the cup as if it’s an ordinary soda. My feet crunch on glass and other debris as I step over the threshold. Marco is sitting on a metal chair at a table missing one of its legs. He is idly carving a piece of wood with a serrated folding knife. Rays of sunlight poke through the walls, illuminating the dust floating in the air.

“Logan!” Marco says, his face lighting up when he sees me.

He’s dressed as he always is, in dark slacks and a gray sport coat over a black T-shirt.

He jams the knife into the table and stands. He extends his hand to shake mine, but instead I lean in to give him a hug, hoping to figure out if he’s got a weapon inside his sport coat. He looks surprised, but he hugs me back.

My chest bumps against a pistol tucked into a shoulder holster.

“We did it,” I say, clapping him on the back.

“We sure did, old friend,” Marco says. “We sure as hell did.” I settle into a wobbly chair across from Marco’s seat. I set the cup of soda on the table.

Marco sits across from me. His steel-gray eyes bore into me.

“So?” Marco says.

“So,” I say, smiling and acting as if nothing is wrong.

“So,” Marco repeats, “where are the rocks, man?”

“I’ve got them,” I say, being deliberately vague.

“I want to see them, dude.”

“There’s time for that.”

“Are they in the Jeep?” Marco says.

I shrug.

“Stop fucking around,” he says jokingly—but I can see in his eyes he’s not kidding.