Bosman rubs sweat from the back of his neck while I translate. His eyes are a peculiar shade of green flecked with yellow, which reminds me of Socks the cat when she hunts lizards in Mrs. Thomas’s garden.

“And where’s this dead coon?” Bosman asks.

“He’s in the shade of the rock over there, Mr. Bosman.” Polite Adele throws pearls before swine, hoping to make things nice. “We’ve sent for a pickup truck from the school to bring him home.”

“Well, now.” Bosman pretends to think, an excruciating sight. “A dead colored on my land is bad luck. You’ve got to move him.”

“We will,” I say. “The pickup truck is on its way. Ten minutes, tops.”

“No,” Bosman says. “Now, now.”

Now, now means right away, this minute, no delays. I don’t understand.

“What?” Lottie demands in Afrikaans. “You heard what she said. The truck will be here in ten minutes.”

“Not my concern,” Bosman replies with grim satisfaction. “I don’t want no dead coon on my land. Move him.”

“Are you befoked?” Lottie demands, and the boys on the back of the truck go still. Befoked means “fucked in the head,” a stunning insult coming from the mouth of a mixed-race girl. Lottie, Lottie . . . what have you done?

Bosman swings his rifle from his shoulder and fires a shot over our heads. The crack makes me jump and my ears ring. Birds fly from the indoni trees, and the girl in the truck screams in short, sharp bursts, a human siren. Bosman laughs at my terrified expression and Lottie’s pale face. He likes that we’re afraid of him.

“What happened, Adele?” Mr. Vincent grabs my shoulder and pulls me away from Bosman, who really is befoked. “Tell me.”

“He . . . he, uh . . .” I stop to clear my throat. “He wants us to move Darnell off his land right away. I told him that a pickup truck is coming, but he doesn’t want to wait for it. We have to go.”

“And the gunshot?” Both Mr. Vincent’s feet are planted in Swaziland now, a country where “Love thy neighbor” is an almost impossible commandment.

“Lottie wanted to know why we had to move Darnell.” I tell half the truth. “He shot the gun to hurry us up.”

“God help me.” Mr. Vincent flexes his fingers open and shut, open and shut. “What difference will ten minutes make? Ask him.”

A waste of time. Those of us who are from southern Africa know Bosman’s type. We meet them at police roadblocks, in stores, and standing guard in their front gardens to protect their personal kingdoms from the jealous eyes of natives and half natives who dream of taking everything they have. They are obsessed, Mother says, with white ruin and black revenge.

“He won’t listen to reason, Mr. Vincent.” Mr. Moses breaks the standoff. “Between you, me, and the girls, we’ll be able to move Darnell across the border. It won’t take long.”