We pulled it from the earth, soil dripping from it, coloring more gray than white. Long, crusted, tips broken off so we could see the gray honeycombs of marrow inside. “Dog?” My cousin, Juan, shook his head, and stories we grew up on, things we heard, came back. Family said that white guy, the one who owned these fields before us, the one with the belt, the buckle with diamonds and bullhorns, would beat the field workers for being too slow, not filling boxes quickly enough, sometimes even to death. Our parents would scare us, make us clean rooms or go to bed with visions of belt buckles glinting, leaves slowly picked from thin branches, till they became a switch, to peel skin, peel back to blood and bone. There are workers in the field now, and we can hear a song coming from them, mixed motor of the tractor, black heads bobbing above green lines of the fields. Juan, colors of his Raiders jersey soaking up so much sun the heat pours from him, his skin so brown, almost black now from too much summer, takes the bone, throwing it at the workers. “Fucking wetbacks!!” The bone falls somewhere in vines and dirt, lost. Juan’s Raiders hat has fallen off, and his hair glistens from Vaseline used to keep his curls straight, plastered to his skin, his skull.