Lottie falls silent. I count to thirty, half a minute gone, and I tell Darnell about the aloe plants and the smooth white stones scattered across the ground; the sun above us; and the heat. I talk to Darnell, but I talk for Lottie—to lighten her sorrow.

We crouch together next to the body. Lottie starts to cry softly. I put my hand on her shoulder. It’s not enough. I shift position and put both my arms around her, and her body shakes with grief. I feel her tears on my neck.

“Oh, Darnell . . .” Lottie says.

23

I Know You

It takes Mr. Vincent, Mr. Moses, and two senior boys an hour to haul Darnell’s body up the slope to the where the land is flat. The stand of green bananas is below us, and all around is dry grass and a wide, flat sky. Mountains loom in the distance. We lay Darnell in the shade of a marbled rock, and Lottie and I go and sit under a scrawny indoni tree. After two hours of close contact with the corpse, I’m glad of the break. Grateful for the silence. The childish injuries on Darnell’s body still tear at my heart: the scrape on his knee, two broken fingernails, and the bruise under his eye. Small hurts. Easy to fix. Death can’t be fixed.

Mr. Vincent sends Gordon Number One and Barnabas Phillips to see if Mrs. Vincent is back from picking up supplies in Howard’s Halt. “Tell her to put sheets and a blanket in the back of the pickup truck, and to park in the field just inside the Bosman farm,” he says. “I don’t care whose land she has to cross to do it.”

“Yes, sir.” Barnabas and Gordon take off at a sprint, and I think tonight Gordon Number One will visit Miss December’s probationary hut to try and forget the weight of Darnell’s body pressed to his shoulder and the low murmur of Lottie Diamond’s voice whispering comfort to the dead.

Lottie and I huddle in the thin shade and wait for Mrs. Vincent to arrive. I curl my hands in my lap to stop them from shaking. Outside I’m calm, but inside I’m filled with dread. No matter how many times Lottie and I shower or douse ourselves in talcum powder, the stink of death will stay with us.

A faint machine noise comes from far off and Lottie sits up straight. She peers across the field.

“What is it?” I ask. Mrs. Vincent is fifteen minutes away.

“Pickup truck.” Lottie scans the horizon. “Driving fast.”

Mr. Vincent wipes his glasses on the tail of his shirt, and Mr. Moses points at a dark speck that quickly takes on the shape of a rusted red truck with a cracked headlight.

“Bosman.” Lottie pulls me to my feet. “Those are his sons in the back.”