Stan.

The first time was at seventeen. He had finished forty rows in a single day, the kind of number people in the basin talk about for weeks. He sat down with the tally notebook on his knee, wrote his own and stayed a moment looking at it. Then he crossed it out with two lines and put Solofo's over it, his cousin, who pollinates in the same crew and goes slower. Solofo was three meters away and saw him do it; he said nothing. Stan told the foreman he had gone slow that day.

Before that, at fifteen, a car came into the warehouse yard and the foreman asked him to go behind the scales, said there were chests to arrange. He asked calmly, the way you send anyone on an errand, and without giving him any reason. Stan spent two hours moving boxes that were fine where they were, and he did not ask for one either. He has the fastest, cleanest hand in the crew, and even so he lets the good rows go down under another name. He says it is contempt for the foreman. It sounds like cocky street-kid talk.