“Please, help yourself, Jack. And have a seat,” the man tells him. He is wearing a silky shirt and more gold rings than he has fingers.

Seeing all this excess after being among people without even the basic necessities of life, Jack is confused. Shaded by the thick canopy of a rubber tree, he takes a clay plate, forks a steak onto it, picks up the carving knife, and slices off a hunk of roast. Spoons some potatoes and rice and plantains. Fills a wooden bowl with salad, pours a glass of wine. Sitting back down, he asks himself, How is this fair? After seeing all he has seen. All the lives of struggle, women and children living off so little.

Jack’s perception is split—one side with guilt, the other with want and hunger.

Unrolling a large burgundy cloth napkin, Jack places it on his thigh, takes the fork and knife and cuts into the steak. Blood and juice run from the meat. It is two inches thick. A real slab. Taking the chunk of beef into his mouth, he savors it. It’s as good a piece of meat as he has ever tasted.

From the other end of the table, the man tells him, “Jack, you are like the drug lord without drugs. What you’ve built. What you came from.”

“I came from a world of struggle. But somewhere, I forgot about my roots. Who I was,” Jack tells him, chewing his steak, reveling in the texture and the glorious taste. Jack tells the man, “I was never introduced to you. I never got your name.”

Smiling. The man’s mouth forms a cold and mirthless grin. “Where are my manners? Call me Sebastián.” Putting a piece of cherimoya into his mouth, he chews the creamy white fruit slowly. He tells Jack, “You know, you remind me of Pablo Escobar. The son of a farmer and a teacher. Starts out his life of crime selling fake diplomas, then making report cards. Genius, no? He came from little and created an empire worthy of the Incas.”

“He also stole cars,” says Jack. “Tombstones. But I never partook in any of those types of actions. Nothing even remotely similar.”

“Ah, you know of his story. No, but you came from little or nothing, only relied upon hard work. Your hard early life prepared you.”

Forgetting his manners, Jack speaks with his mouth full. “By the midseventies, Escobar had established an organization that would become the Medellín cartel. Are you saying his cartel was like me building my company?”

“Yes. Something similar. Different means to a similar end. He ruled the cocaine trade. Made so much coin, he used it for fire—heated his home with legal tender and still never went broke. He had planes. He had houses. He was a provider. A man before his time. The two of you share the same ethic for work and the same passion to succeed.”