Now that the guards have departed, our cell mates emerge from the shadows and circle us. They don’t look pleased at having two new mouths to share their food with. The oldest must be eighty; the youngest appears to be eight or nine. Most are gaunt, some are frighteningly emaciated, and many of them look desperate to the point of madness.

A tall man with rotting teeth makes a grab for the watch on my wrist. I instinctively swat his arm away.

The contact produces an immediate reaction. Weapons come out. Not guns or knives, but primitive prison weapons—sharpened sticks and stones chipped into hand axes and iron shards that have been chiseled into shanks. Questions and taunts are barked at us, whispered at us, and shouted at us, in a variety of languages I don’t understand.

I put one arm protectively around the boy and prepare to fight for my life.

A sturdy, bearded man with what must once have been a barrel chest issues a sharp command. The hostile crowd instantly stops threatening us. Hands holding weapons freeze in midair. Lips barking taunts fall silent.

The bearded man steps in front of us. His hair has gone white and his barrel chest has staved in, but he still looks powerful. His strong face and intelligent eyes mark him as a natural leader. He asks us a question in Spanish, and then repeats it in what I think is Portuguese.

“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t speak those languages.”

His face reflects surprise. “Americans!” he says.

“I’m American. This boy is not. He was kidnapped by drug smugglers in the Andes, who cut his tongue out. My friend—that dog they just dragged away—and I helped him to escape, but then Colonel Aranha’s soldiers shot down our hot-air balloon and captured us. They brought us here.”

As I listen to my own explanation, I’m sure no one will believe it. From the drug smugglers in the Andes to the balloon, it sounds preposterous.

But the bearded man slowly nods. He looks the boy over as he translates my words into several different languages for the benefit of our other cell mates.

“So you are an enemy of Colonel Aranha?” he finally asks, in surprisingly good English.

“Yes. I think he plans to kill me.”

“He plans to kill all of us,” the bearded man says. “This prison is a slow death. How did a young American come to be the enemy of a Brazilian Army colonel?”

“It’s complicated,” I answer. “A family feud.”

“Family feuds are always complicated. But if you and your family are enemies of the colonel, you are welcome here.” He speaks a few words to his cell mates, and the results are immediate. The hostility vanishes from their faces. More important, their makeshift weapons disappear into pockets, mouths, armpits, and cracks in the floor.