Wikus came with coffee and sold me

He came with the thermos again. Same Wikus, same printout, same careful little knock at 06:30 like he was bringing communion. I opened the gate. I always open the gate. That is the thing I cannot stop — opening when a man brings something warm and a piece of paper and calls it friendly.

I turned the printout over and Pieter Viviers' watermark was right there on the back. Not hidden. Just there, like the man assumed I would never turn it over. I want to rank him. I want to put him below the Citrusdal van driver who at least had the honesty to stare at my hand from two pumps over. Wikus does not even get that. Wikus gets the category below — the man who smiles and passes your coordinates to the buyer who wants your stock.

I slammed the gate. The latch caught the August gash and opened it back down to the fat. Blood on his sleeve, on the printout, on the gate. He did not flinch. That is how I knew it was real — he had been paid already, and a little blood from a Van girl was not going to undo the deal. He filed the complaint by email while I was still on the steps. Disclosed the gravid female's location. I am keeping the exact wording. One day Wikus Smit will need me and I will remember it word for word.

Oom Karel said yes. No questions. That man has never asked me a single question in his life and I have given him half my best hauls. He is the only male on this coast I trust to take a phone call about a scorpion and not turn it into a transaction about me.