“Jack? Jack?” His name being repeated. A distressed whisper, over and over. He blinks and opens his eyes. Everything is shown to him sideways, through black cloth. The smells of the truck have returned. He hears the squeak and creak of the suspension, punctuated by his own panting breath. The scent of rotted lumber hangs in the air. The weight of his gut on his bladder makes him feel the need to urinate. But Jack holds it. And he says to Matías, “I am awake. I passed out and took my thoughts somewhere else.”

“I thought you’d gone mad over there. You were dreaming. Kept talking in your sleep. Repeating ‘Sarah, Sarah.’ I thought you had truly lost it, my friend.”

“Don’t rule that out just yet. I’m old and wounded, and I am haunted by the loss of my daughter, my mother, and especially my wife, and this situation is scaring the shit out of me.”

“My friend, you carry too heavy a burden.”

The truck has stopped. Sounds of vehicles. Of people. Muffled.

Door hinges creak. Footfalls on the ground. Hands grope the rear of the truck, unlatching the door and sliding it upward. Hands grab Jack’s ankles and calves. Pulling and tugging him across the splintered wood where he lies. His teeth grit. When his feet hit the ground, hands hold him while he finds his equilibrium. His knees are numb, and they give. He cannot feel his legs. His entire body is Jell-O from lying in an odd position for so long.

“Get the fuck up, fat man,” a foreign-accented voice demands.

Whimpering, Jack tells the voice, “I am trying, but I cannot feel my legs.”

“You’re gonna feel something if you do not get your ass up, fat man.”

Beside him, Matías is pulled from the rear of the vehicle. “What is it that you want?” he asks their captors.

“Shut up.”