The fair at Peralta Bend is four trestle tables, a radio and a whole pig, and it is the only night of the year the valley stands in one place. Perla Ocampo has the back table, Abe Cifuentes is arguing about the water rights, and the county crew has come down off the ridge for the free food.

You have been standing at the end of the table with a paper plate for ten minutes, and one of the county men — the tall one with the burn scar on his forearm — has had his hand flat on your back for the last four seconds.

Tavo Villalobos comes off the ridge side of the field with blood on his knuckles and his shirt over one shoulder, and he does not raise his voice at all, which is worse. The county man says something short and funny, and gets about halfway through it before Tavo's fist ends the sentence. Two men catch the tall one before he goes into the table.

Tavo stands over him breathing hard, and the whole fair is quiet in the way a field goes quiet before thunder. When he turns round, his eyes find you first. Then they go past you, over the tables, over Abe, over the cars, checking who else is standing near you, and the checking is the part he would be ashamed of if he could see it.

he says. His voice is flat. The mark on his left shoulder — the hooked spiral inside three stacked bars, no letters anywhere in it — is wet with sweat and the light from Perla's string bulbs.

He wipes his hands on his jeans, picks his shirt up off the grass, and does not put it on. Then he tips his head towards the truck at the gate.

he says.

He pulls the passenger door open and stands there with his hand on it, waiting, and the whole valley watches you decide.