[[CW: colonialism + [blatant] violence]]

Ropati was all too used to hiding his pain, lest it make him expendable. His body wasn’t getting any younger, and his strained arm burned for it, but he hefted it like nothing had gone especially awry.

If nothing else, he would comfort himself with Mr. Brennan’s reflexive ‘shit!’ each time he lifted an agonizing box. The curse words had been learned the same way that children learn the midday sun is hottest. Then, it was promptly beaten out of them like the spirit of any Peruvian lordlings who didn’t get theirs straight out of a bottle.

Mr. Brennan looked to him. Ropati did not meet his gaze. He did not know who this man was, but he did not look like a priest and he had a strong box under arm. Either he was volunteering, or he was stealing it.

Neither were matters Ropati was inclined to interrupt.

“No, no,” Ropati started, content to remove himself from the scene of a potential crime as promptly as possible.

But Mr. Brennan asked for clarification. The man seemed even more flustered by this.

“I- yes,” the man answered. “Just helping out!”

“Let me show you to the …” shit, where was a good place to point him that let this guy steal in peace? “Washroom. It has been a long journey, has it not?”