The sun bore down on the quadrangle, baking the concrete beneath our feet, the low buildings which fringed the quadrangle trapping the heat. The temperature was raised still further by a desert-dry wind that blew in our faces. Already, I felt the sweat build in my armpits.
The moment he had us all lined up as though to fry in the full blast of the sun, Brito began his tirade.
It was our fault, apparently, that the dog had found its way into the chicken coop and massacred those poor chickens. Our fault for being the filthy scum we were, not worthy to be called human, the scourge of the planet, filled with an evil so corrupting only the most severe rehabilitation would drive the beast from our souls.
'A pestilence lives in all you men. In you and you and you. You are diseased, do you hear
