Before they can decide on their captives’ immediate future, an early-1980s Toyota Land Cruiser comes barreling down the road. All eyes turn to the interruption. In the passenger’s seat, Matías and Jack recognize one of the men who kidnapped and delivered them to the farm.

Before anyone takes notice, Matías grabs Jack’s arm. “Run, amigo! Run!”

Behind them, voices. Jack’s feet pound the hard earth, heading toward the shack where they’ve been rooming. Dashing around the corner, up behind the shack, following the rugged trail of dirt and rock. Passing the makeshift lab of tarps, buckets, and fuel containers and veering into the jungle. Tree branches slap and scrape their faces and limbs. Everything is thick, overgrown. Jack swats the cloud of biting flies that envelops him. Already his chest is heaving and burning. His heart pounds on the back of his sternum as if it wants out.

Behind them, voices and shouts are faint. Matías points to the right, off the trail, and Jack follows.

Turning to him, Matías commands, “Jack, hurry. Come!”

Dodging plants and bushes, stepping deep down a hillside, until Matías missteps. His ankle rolls, and the land slants steep and straight down. Jack takes a similar tumble, and down they plunge, hitting rocks and limbs and brambles. Being gouged, scraped, and stuck. Until their momentum slows and they fetch up at the bottom.

Laid out, wheezing and breathless, Jack rolls over onto his stomach. The world around him spins into fragments. His head spins. Matías reaches for his arm. “Hold it together, my friend,” he says. “We now have a fighting chance, but we must move.”

As they help each other to their feet, Matías cringes. “Oh, my ankle! ¡Carajo! Fucking hell! I’ve rolled it.”

Jack is realizing the seriousness of their plight. They have nothing. No water. No weapons. No money. No first-aid kit. No map and compass. Nada. Before them there is nothing but jungle. He wonders about bandits, outlaws. Goddamned cannibals. Survival.

Matías limps again. Tells Jack, “We gotta move.”

They slog on, brushing through vegetation and making slow progress. No human sounds—only the droning of the cicadas and the movements of two injured and exhausted men.

Coming to a small, rocky stream of water that is ankle to midshin deep, Matías tells him, “We follow this down, and eventually, we find people. Some kind of settlement.”

Out of breath, Jack tells Matías, “That’s fine with me, but then what will we do?”

“We get lucky, find someone to get us to a town. Find a phone. Call for some help.”