Carlos hocks up phlegm. ‘This should’ve been fine.’

Outside: the dog-growl of pickup treads catching grit.

‘Try the room’s length, Carlos, you’ve done its width.’

‘That’s not funny.’ ‘We could do another line.’

‘Neither’s that.’ My voice is a flat yellow whine.

Comedown like a steel spade. My skull feels split.

I picture mangoes bleeding into roadside gravel.

‘C’mon, there’s coke caught in your card digits.

Knock it out — fixer says he’s a mile

away.’ Palm trees, colonial porticoes, humid dark.

Carlos at the open window deliberately spits.

His drool tapers down the terracotta tile.

I roll my lighter wheel, watch it spark.