ALT A plate of oranges slide across the table. Papá thumbs the paper, the Crossroads Man peels rinds watching the wheel outside spin water. Casualties mount, los cuerpos se amontonan like well kerned lines, Papa's finger tracing newsprint ink for signs. The Rationer would be here soon, counting flecks of grain, charting notations, doling coins. This is not what Papá was promised; war seems a second nature. Citrus stings the absence of morality, his daughter's hands buried beneath the apple tree sprout a single marigold.