The heat rolling in through the open windows feels like a thick, steaming blanket. At the same time, the AC is running, sporadically easing his discomfort with a welcome splash of cold. Someone in the vehicle is smoking. Every time he starts to doze off, his head drifts to his right, and an elbow bumps him in the head. “¡Despiértate, cabrón!” a voice commands, only for him to doze off again and slump to the left. Getting another elbow bump and another annoyed command to wake up.

Every hour or so, a hand slaps his face and lifts the hood up to his nose, and the mouth of a plastic bottle meets his lips. He greedily sucks down the cold water, wishing he could pour it all over himself.

More questions run through Jack’s mind. Is this happening because of how horrible a husband and father he’d been? Is this payback? Some sort of karmic retribution?

The old Land Cruiser has been alternately revving and coasting for what seems like hours. And when the terrain finally levels out, the vehicle coasts to a stop. Sounds of movement. The doors all around unlatch. Open. Hands grip his arms, not roughly but not gently. Pull and lead him from the vehicle.

His feet walk over hard, dusty earth. Every step makes him flinch in pain. His feet hurt. His arms are pulled behind him. Add to these tortures the sweltering heat. The only noise other than the squabbling of sparrows is the snarling and barking of several scary-sounding dogs. Constant. Loud. There is the sound of a latch. Unseen hands guide him past a metal gate that groans shut behind him. A voice tells him, “Watch your feet. Step up.”

And he does. Walks one step after the next, climbing a dirt trail. His knees creak, and his thighs burn. At last, the ground levels off, and he feels the heat slacken. Wherever he is being taken, it’s cooler. The dogs’ barking has grown distant somewhere behind him. He has entered an enclosed area. The air feels cool. And a voice says, “Take him to his quarters.”

Led down what he believes to be a hallway, the sound of footsteps bounce off the walls. He stops. A door is unlatched. He is placed inside, told not to turn around. The sack is lifted from his head. The click of a knife blade and the plastic ties binding his wrists fall away. “Make yourself comfortable,” a voice tells him. The door behind him closes, locks from the outside. Footsteps grow distant.