Jungle fortress meets desert prison. The scorched wasteland is broken by an enormous fence, topped by rings of razor wire. Guard towers are visible at intervals, with armed sentries standing stock-still.

Only one way in. A massive gate. The buckle on this formidable mesh belt. I try to puzzle out why an army regiment in this remote part of the Amazon might need such a fortress. To keep enemies out? For intimidation? To protect valuables? Or because things are happening inside that are so horrible they are best kept secret?

Our transport vehicle rolls up and the gate slides open. We roll in and the enormous gate closes behind us. I force both eyes open as we rumble down a road toward a compound of low buildings. They look like army barracks—and were clearly designed for functionality rather than comfort or elegance.

They also look strangely familiar.

I recall my vision of P.J. in chains, menaced by a giant spider.

Gisco, I’ve been here before, in my dream about P.J.

It must be the colonel’s base. I hope they have a cafeteria.

It’s a prison, Gisco. The people I saw inside it were starving to death. Those were the lucky ones.

You really know how to put the damper on the end of a trip.

Our transport vehicle rolls to a stop. Guards are waiting for us. They wear khaki army uniforms and carry guns and clubs. They drag us out and shove us forward.

I hear awful sounds carried on the breeze. Men begging. Women pleading. The cries of desolate children.

Gisco cocks his ears and looks sad.

The boy also hears them. Recognition registers on his young face. He knows pain and helplessness.

We pass from sunlight to gloom as the prison’s heavy door clangs shut. We’re pushed and shoved down a series of narrow and dank low-ceilinged corridors.

The cries of misery are constant now. A mother calls her child’s name again and again. A man begs for water. The heat is sweltering. This prison was built almost without windows—the afternoon sun turns it into a kiln.

I try to remember the twists and turns of this maze. If we ever manage to escape from our captors, I’ll have to find my way back out.

But it’s no use. One hallway leads to another, and my head is still throbbing.

An enormous rat runs into the corridor ahead of us and bares its teeth. One of the guards raises a pistol.

Terrific. A sweltering, vermin-infested dungeon. Can you imagine what the mosquitoes are like at night?

We’ll find some way out of here, Gisco. If there’s an entrance there has to be an exit.

I hope so. But there’s an old dog saying: don’t bury your bone in too deep a hole or the hole will eat the bone.