She was probably six or seven. I couldn’t really tell because Hondurans are smaller in size.

No one got in...that was the rule. Shot first was the order. There was this pit about 200 feet long, 100 feet wide and 20 feet deep. It's were the Army dumped it's shit. There were local salvaging during the day and night for stuff. It was all women and children. The pit was always on fire from all spent oil and chemicals. On a good day the smoke mingled with the morning fog. It was on this type of morning that we were alerted. I was part of the early response team. Get to "The Pit". That was the order.

A few days before, they notified the town not to enter "The Pit". One person never got the message.

The Honduran guard pointed to the spot. We moved in a tactical manner to the spot, fully covered with Lip bush and dense grass. Weapons at ready and fixed on the spot.

She had on a blue flowered dress, sandals and oil rags in her hand. Good for cooking dinner. She was going to make her mother proud. Fuck me.

We didn't talk about it much. It was a Honduran thing. We played football that afternoon. It felt good to get hit.

After a tour in Italy I got the hell out...join the college life. Wanted to get smarter and think. I just wanted to think. I wanted to write...get it all out. So I moved to Seattle after graduating and began writing the next great American novel. I had to get it out. Never wanted to write...had to.

It started with The Leaf Collector. Still writing more and more. Got to get it all out.
When it's done it's done.