Casiano paused from time to time to wipe away sweat with his shirtsleeve and take another drag from the cigarette hanging between his lips. The pig howled-or grunted? or roared?-and ran for its life, half its face destroyed, but it was tethered by the neck to a starfruit tree and the rope only allowed it to run in frantic, ever-shortening circles around the tree. Casiano was crushing the creature with hammer blows. I had just positioned myself against the bannister when a shriek struck me head-on. Casiano, breaking down old furniture with a handsaw on his patio. I used to like to chew ice, and in the afternoon I would go up to the balcony with a glass brimming with little cubes to watch the neighbor, Mr. Flies were launching themselves against the windows. Once, when I was a little girl, I saw a pig being killed.
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