The locals wangle a lift from a visitor to the village, telling Matías it would be in everyone’s best interest if he and his gringo friend left as fast as they were able. Loading into the bed of a Toyota truck, they share space with a crate of live chickens bound for a small town alongside a muddy river. The ride is rough with potholes, roots, and rocks the size of an engine block, and the truck creaks and groans at the abuse. Jack expects it to split in half, but it never does.

Pulling into the town. Getting out of the truck, they thank the driver and walk along the dirt main street, drawing looks from every eye. Jack gets the sense of being spied on, surveilled. It makes him feel jittery, uneasy.

Women in woven vests, with brimmed hats over their dark locks, sell fruit and meat pies as kids run and play. Eyeing it all, Jack has no money for the food that looks and smells so good. He realizes he is of lower social standing than these peasants. They have much to offer; he has nothing.

Matías believes they can find a way to contact his boss. Maybe his wife. Get someone to pick them up. They just need to find a phone.

Jack wonders about his work. Someone has to be wondering where he is. He has not kept in contact with anyone, hasn’t even checked in since he went MIA.

As he walks along, more eyes look at him, then turn away amid whispers. He studies the buildings in the distance. Old mud-block structures with roofs of corrugated metal. They’re unlike anything Jack has ever seen. Their boots scuff and scrabble over loose rock. Matías tells him of the flood season, how it washes out roads and entire hillsides, causing mudslides, burying roadways.

The sun is beating directly down on them now, and sweat burns their eyes. Matías forearms moisture from his face as he speaks with locals. Jack understands a word or two in every sentence—not enough to get a clue what’s being said. A barrier. Fingers point, directing them away from the market, up toward the buildings above the town.

Jack is tired of walking. Every step hurts every part of him. Walking past a shop window, he notices handbills taped to the glass and stapled to door frames. Pages with his face on them. Matías rips one down. “You’re famous, my friend. Look.”

“What does it say?” Jack asks.

“Businessman missing. Reward for his whereabouts.”

“Reward?” Jack asks.