To Hunt in Fields

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“Snow,” Jim Malick said in wonder, shaking his head as he climbed in the cab.

The driver grinned at Jim via the mirror, white teeth bright against a face as dark as his own.

“What do you mean, ‘snow’?” the driver said, with a chuckle in his voice. “As if we haven’t seen snow two months going. Where you been?”

“Belize.”

“Belize. That’s down south a ways.”

“Long ways,” said Jim, feeling the miles in his muscles. His head ached after having subsisted on the closed, stuffy air of the airplane cabin. “Three-oh-four Woodbine Drive,” he said after checking the note from the Exchange.

“Three-oh-four. We’re on our way,” the driver said. “What you doing there, down in Belize? Not getting weather like this, I guess.”

“I was with C.A. Exchange. A little more than a year, I was down there,” Jim said, settling back against cold vinyl. “Helping build up an ag co-op, a farming kind of thing.”

“Yeah? Farming what?”

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