After coming quietly through the back door he could see what was happening. Murray was laid out on the ground. The Mexican was standing behind Poe holding something to Poe’s neck; his other hand was down Poe’s crotch. Poe had both hands in the air like he was telling the man to calm down. They were standing in the light from the fire with their backs to him. Isaac was in the dark, invisible to others.

“Otto,” the Mexican shouted. “I ain’t got all fuckin day.”

“Your little buddy ain’t outside,” said a voice. “He must of already took off.”

The Swede came back from the other side of the building with his face shining in the firelight, grinning at Poe like he was happy to see him. Isaac found his grip on the bearing, felt how heavy it was, five pounds, six pounds, he rocked to his back leg and threw as hard as he could; he threw so hard he felt the muscles in his shoulder tear. The bearing disappeared in the darkness and there was a loud crack as it hit the Swede in the center of the head, just at the top of his nose. The Swede seemed frozen in place and then his knees went loose and he seemed to fall straight down, a building collapsing on itself.

Poe broke loose and went running out the door; Isaac stood frozen for a second, watching the man he’d hit, the hands and feet were twitching slightly. Go, he thought. Murray was still lying on the ground but Jesús was now kneeling over the Swede, talking to him, touching his face, though Isaac already knew—knew from how heavy the bearing was, knew from how hard he’d thrown it.

They could barely make out the train tracks in the darkness. It was raining again. Isaac’s hands and face were slick with mud and his shoes were heavy with it and he was soaked through but from sweat or rain he didn’t know.

You need your pack, he thought. No, you can’t go back there. How bad is that guy hurt? That thing was really heavy, your arm hurts just from throwing it. You shouldn’t have hit him in the face.