And Jack tells him, “Earlier, when I nodded off, I dreamed of my wife, Sarah. She was on a beach.”

“Did she have flames all around her?”

“No, she did not. But everything was gray and black, and she spoke harshly to me about the way I provided for her and my children.”

“That’s good. She offered truth.”

“Why is that good?”

“Because flames could be an omen for an ending. Black and white could be an omen for the situation, meaning this is how it is between two sides. No middle. Like a lesson.”

Wherever they are headed, the road has become rougher than before. An upward climb followed by rocky descents. The undercarriage rattles as if it might fall off. From the cab, Jack can hear the men arguing.

For some reason, Jack wonders about his backpack. Did they grab it, or leave it in the truck cab? Everything happened so quickly he never paid attention, thinking that wherever their captors were taking them, he would at least have some of the provisions packed by Maria. A change of clothing. Food. Water. Something familiar.

Time passes. It feels like hours. Jack tries to control his breathing, his worry. Tries to think of somewhere calm. Until the truck stops. The rear door slides up again, and once more, Jack and Matías are dragged across the truck’s floor. The black hoods come off. Jack can breathe. The air is thick. Heated and sticky. Daylight crimps and burns his sight at first. His eyes blink and water. A hand stabilizes him until he can stand without support. There is the ominous click of a blade. The plastic zip ties that bind his wrists fall away. There’s a nudge. Handing him something. Jack’s hands take the weight. It’s his backpack. He hugs it to his chest. His vision is full of blurred shapes. Still adjusting. Hands push and poke at him.

“Walk,” a voice commands. Then a hand leads him by the arm. Walks him forward. Until the voice tells Jack and Matías, “Stop.”

Jack’s eyes squint and burn. Little by little, his eyes adjust to the brightness. He’s in a town or a village. Surrounding them are six buildings that look like two-story barns with decks on the upper level. They are constructed from odds and ends of lumber and tin. Sections of plywood and two-by-fours and two-by-sixes. Worn chairs sit out before the structures, and clotheslines run from one end to the next. An array of different-colored shirts, pants, and undergarments hangs from them. Out in the space between the buildings, the common area is like a courtyard. Old tires and hunks of stone lie where they were discarded.