The night after his brother Frankie hit someone with his truck Joe Roberts lay awake wondering if he should tell the police. The deep, primordial smell of earth mingles with the sickly sweet rot of dying vegetation. Somewhere deep in the recesses of the jungle the police are searching for him. Joe scrambles through the forest, the sound of dogs trailing him. The beat of his heart crashes against the inside of his skull. He is running, running, chasing, looking for Frankie. If he can only talk to Frankie. Joe follows the hollow trickle of water to a river. His brother is sitting there on the bank, his body curled up around an object in his hands. Before he can say anything Frankie thrusts a rag into his pocket and whispers “Hide this for me.” The glassy water clicks over the smooth stones in the bottom of the river. Joes runs. The rag starts bleeding and the thick blood seeps through his pocket and runs down his pant leg. The dogs can smell it. He wakes up in the police station, the rag still bleeding in his pocket. His veins feel like they’re pumping battery acid. Joe asks to use the bathroom and tries to clean his pants in the sink but the blood will not come out. An old policeman catches him scrubbing and pushes him against the cool, tiled wall. Joe confesses his brother’s sin and the oldman grumbles, “But your brother has been dead since Wednesday”.
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