One by one, Jack, Matías, and several small children swing the sacks of leaves over their shoulders and carry them up into the jungle behind their barnlike living quarters, where they dump the sacks into knee-high wooden corrals constructed from scrap lumber. Then children in red and yellow rubber rain boots spread them out evenly. After an hour of walking back and forth, transporting all of yesterday’s harvest, Jack’s quads burn and his back aches. Carlos explains to Matías that the leaves had taken nearly four months to grow. This is the next phase. Matías translates this information to Jack.

The young man who had brought their food stands in high black rubber boots. The red bandanna up over his nose makes him look like a horse thief. Carlos explains to Matías, who relays to Jack, “After we walk on the leaves, smashing them, one of the other kids dumps the large blue gas can of bleach and water into the leaves, then mixes the liquid up within the squared corral. Walking on all the leaves softens them to soak up the bleach and water for ten hours.” Carlos’s son uses a long broomstick with a long rubber blade on the end to swish and mix the leaves and liquid. The resulting sludge reminds Jack of cooked greens.

Even after dilution with water, the fumes of chlorine bleach are thick and intense. Jack’s and Matías’s eyes burn and water; their noses drip. Jack’s throat is painfully raw.

Once they finish mixing the leaves, they leave to let them soak. Following the path back to the courtyard, they sit outside. Insects buzz and whine around them. Jack watches the kids play with a flattened basketball, tossing and kicking it as if it were supposed to be flat. They laugh and run without a care in the world. They have no understanding of class or poverty or what the rest of the world has to offer. No TV. No internet or smartphones. Here, those luxuries are unheard of. Jack feels the size of an ant. The wealth he had amassed, the privilege he worked his entire life for—all of that is lost here. A myth. Feeling sorry for himself, seeing how weak he is, he asks Matías, “Do you think your family knows what happened to you? Being hijacked and kidnapped?”

Sweat beads on Matías’s forehead as he lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. “Hard to say. Here, when something bad happens, it might take twelve or twenty-four hours before it reaches a person’s loved ones, their family.” Pulling hard on the cigarette again, he says, “Here, time stands still. News travels very slowly. For all she knows, I’m out on a bender with guys I know and work with.”

“That’s awful. Weren’t your wife and son expecting you to arrive home from making deliveries?”