I’m sweating despite the cold. I can see the hut more clearly now. It’s made of wood, with branches and leaves strewn across its roof for added concealment.

We cross what looks like a giant pumpkin patch. Neat rows of plants. No pumpkins though.

I can smell the chicken now. Gisco’s right—it’s a tantalizing aroma. I climb down much faster.

Something glows ahead in a rocky ravine. A fire. The mountain men are having a backyard barbecue!

Two chickens cook on wooden spits! Talk about hitting the jackpot! Smells pretty good, doesn’t it, Gisco?

My dear boy, the word “good” doesn’t begin to describe that aroma. I wish I could bottle that smell and use it for cologne. I wish I could crawl into the cavity of that roast chicken and eat it from the inside out. I wish …

Gisco, before your appetite gets us both killed, allow me to point out that the longest knife I’ve ever seen in my life is lying on a rock near those two chickens.

That’s not a knife, it’s a machete—more of a tool than a weapon. It’s used, no doubt, for clearing brush and slicing the heads off plump chickens before they’re plucked and spitted. But it’s not necessary for unspitting them.

Gisco dashes across a final small cucumber garden, or whatever those green plants are, and grabs one of the spits in his teeth. I can’t quite work out how he unspits it, but in a fraction of a second the golden brown bird is no longer being cooked but rather devoured.

I myself haven’t had a good meal in weeks. The sight of Gisco gorging himself and the sound of his tongue slurping chicken fat off his lips is more than I can bear.

I grab the second spit, slide the chicken off onto a fat rock, and rip off a drumstick. It’s piping hot, but I couldn’t care less—I’m famished.

That’s the spirit, Jack. Binge with gusto! That’s my motto, anyway, the masticating mongrel announces as he practically inhales a chicken wing and snaps the bones in his jaws, so that they sound like small fireworks popping one after the other.

No, wait. Those are footsteps, racing toward us! We both whirl around.

A girl is standing there. I can’t tell her age. Eleven? Twelve? Her long black hair is tied in a braid.

I smile at her, and then see my mistake. It’s not a girl but a thin slip of a boy. His large dark brown eyes are childlike and bright with life, but they shine out of a face that is haggard with suffering beyond his years. He looks shocked to see us. When he opens his mouth he’s too frightened to talk, so only a few surprised sounds come out. He waves his arms at us wildly.