“Here, man, wear mine. I haven't s**t in ‘em for a week.”
Omar looks up at me, then away, toward the muddy side of the hole. I'm hit with the feeling I've had since he came that he doesn't like me or any other white guy. I break my rifle down and spread the parts out on a piece of ammo crate. Instead of being the color of a Zippo lighter, like it should be, the firing pin is a dull but slimy green, the color of a lily pad. The forestock and barrel are spotted with mud and there are weeds caught in the perforations. Even though it is filthy there was no more chance of it jamming than if it had been clean, because the slime-green in the action is from oil. I can't remember the last time I cleaned it. I wipe it all down and oil it, reassemble it, and check it out with a dry clip in.
I wonde
