Page 123 of Wayfarers

at our backs in heavily accented English,

Never come back, thieves, I’ll call

the authorities. I have your faces on camera.

Him giving chase, awkwardly, slowly;

me hurling a chip rack to the ground

in front of him to trip him up (not that

he was any true threat) and trip him up

it did. He landed hard and cried out.

Me, looking back to see him

get to his feet with the help

of the younger man, his arm hanging

at an unnatural angle.

Us, jumping aboard the moving RV;

high fives and laughter and calls

of bleed the Beast. $233 worth of free gas.

Pirates, baby. Pirates.

I remember the voice

of the man—it echoed in my ears—

and it wasn’t the voice

of a Beast. It was the voice of someone

who left his home to travel

far away and root himself in American soil

and try to grow toward the sun through

honest work and raise a boy

to become a healer.

What was $233 to Conoco? I thought to reassure

myself. But the note of desperation

in the man’s tone told me

that it wasn’t Conoco who would be bearing

this loss, and even without that, I knew