They blow into Colorado on Interstate 70 as darkness closes in. Hunter’s vision plays tricks on him when he notices something from out of nowhere. Thick, muscular neck, head with horns like the devil’s, broad and bulky with wide-set eyes, thick mane of brownie-colored shag. Christ, it’s a bison! And the next thing Hunter knows, he’s Evel Knieveling sideways with sparks fountaining up from metal on pavement, sliding beneath the beast, sideways glance, feeling of moist hide and hair passing over his face. Hunter holds on for life, riding it out, and everything goes dark.

JACK

JACK

Morning feels like a newly arisen blister. Ache reverberates through his body like a metal file rasping at his bones. His hands are cracked and oozing. He is doing something he hasn’t experienced since he was a child: using his hands to pick up, grip, or lift anything of weight. To perform physical labor. He can not recall the last time sweat stung his eyes.

The dank room had grown unbearable, thanks to Matías. He is squatting on a bucket, hunched forward, sweat beading on his face. The noises coming from him don’t sound human. A cigarette perches on his lip. Smoke hangs in the air around him, and Jack is grateful for the way it helps mask the stench.

It takes all of Jack’s concentrated will not to retch. Like everything else on this pilgrimage, it is unlike anything he has ever encountered.

Pressing his feet to the ground, he limps out into the morning air, where the heat punches him in the face. Looking out over the courtyard, the surrounding forest, the quiet. Watching the fog rise like smoke from the valley of green vegetation. A hand touches his shoulder from behind. Jack jumps. It is Matías, carrying the bucket. “Con permiso,” he says. “I’ll dump this load of mierda. Let you have your turn.”

Letting him pass with his reeking burden, Jack turns his face away and wills himself not to inhale. He hears gurgling from his own belly and wonders whether it is growling or complaining. He had eaten fruit and potatoes before he slept. Not a great combination. He misses his Wagyu filets, medium rare. But here he is, awake. Troubled. The starch isn’t sitting well in his gut. He hopes the feeling is just hunger—the last thing he wants is to come down with something dire from the water and the food. Searching his mind, he wonders how he will get out of this place—or whether he ever will. And if he can’t get away, can he survive here in this way, living a simple life of enforced servitude? Or is he just living on borrowed time ever since he was abducted? After everything he had built and worked to achieve, for once in his life he is unsure of anything, especially his future.