But something’s wrong. These aren’t the thudding footsteps of swarthy drug smugglers. These are the soft, padding, scared footsteps of one relatively small person.

Gentle hands on my back. Tugging me over. The good news is it’s the boy with the braid! The bad news is he’s holding the machete in his shaking right hand. Is he going to slit our throats? No, he begins sawing at the ropes.

Gisco, it’s that kid! He’s setting me free.

Remind him not to forget about a boy’s best friend.

He looks terrified. I think he’s risking his life to help us.

We’ll find a very nice way to thank him. Hurry up and get free so you can set me free.

Seconds later the ropes are in a bunch on the floor and Gisco and I are both taking awkward, reeling steps, waiting for the blood flow to return to our legs.

“Thank you,” I say to our rescuer. “Muchas gracias.”

The boy looks back at me, and for a moment his worried face softens just a bit. He opens his mouth, but again no recognizable words come out.

Maybe he’s mute, Gisco.

No. He can make sounds. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Jack, but I think somebody cut his tongue out.

Gisco’s observation makes me feel disgust and a surge of fury. This boy is barely out of childhood. He should be playing tag and hide-and-seek. Why would anyone do such a cruel thing to a young kid? I ask the dog.

It’s a precaution. They’re probably keeping him here as a slave, and they wanted to make sure he stays quiet.

I’ve seen news stories about child slaves taken from their families, confined and abused, and forced to work their whole lives for scraps of food and the clothes on their backs. Such exposes always seemed distant and remote to me—outrages in countries so far away that I never imagined I would meet such a kid face-to-face.

Now I’m looking back into this boy’s dark brown eyes. They’re big and frightened, like the eyes of a rabbit that has been chased down and cornered.

I can only imagine the amount of courage it’s taking for him to help us, knowing he may be brutally punished for it later.

Gisco’s right—we have to find a way to thank him. He looks so lost, so completely alone on this mountaintop.

On impulse I take off the necklace that Eko gave me on the Outer Banks. There’s a locket with a tiny image of my mother, Mira, who lives in the far future. It’s my only picture of her, but I sense that this brave, solitary boy needs a mother even more than I do.