I don’t have long to ponder my comrade’s condition. The day after Gisco is brought to our cell in such sad shape, the guards return. This time they come for me.

I am not led out with nine other cell mates to burn another forest. They take me alone.

They march me beneath a hole in the ceiling and yank on a chain. The slightly brownish water that cascades down is lukewarm but I don’t complain. It’s the first shower I’ve had in a long time. They give me a bar of soap, and watch me all the time I clean myself, perhaps to make sure I don’t have a weapon hidden.

After I towel off, they toss me clean shorts and sandals. Clearly I’m about to be presented to someone of enough consequence that they don’t want to offend him by ushering me in filthy and stinky.

I have a pretty good idea who I’m about to meet, and it scares me. On the other hand, I’ve sat in the dank cell long enough. If it is Colonel Aranha, I have a few very pointed questions I want to ask him about P.J. and Gisco.

And then we’re on the move again. A fast march through endless corridors. The guards prod me along, their guns always at the ready. The colonel didn’t squander much money on decor. The walls are unpainted, the lights dim, the thick iron bars on doors and windows are rusted.

Faces watch me from between those bars as we hurry past. Women. Children. They don’t cry out—they seem silenced by a complete and crushing sense of hopelessness.

We climb steep stairs to a new level. Cells in better condition. Most of them are empty, doors yawning open, awaiting their next occupant. They’re small and windowless—isolation cells. Every now and then we pass a locked door, and hear screams or moans from inside. The few prisoners on this sequestered ward seem to have been driven insane by the colonel’s special brand of hospitality.

The guards all look human—there’s no sign of Dark Army cyborgs or chimeras. I guess Colonel Aranha has gone to such trouble setting up his impersonation of a Brazilian Army officer that he doesn’t want any ghouls from the future to risk exposing his charade.

We come to the end of the corridor. One door, all by itself. Something familiar about it.

I’ve seen it before. In a dream.

The door slowly swings open. I glance inside.

There’s P.J.! Standing in the center of the room. Arms shackled above her head. Head lolling to one side, almost on her shoulder. She’s facing toward me, but she doesn’t react at all. Then I see that she’s blindfolded.

“P.J.!” I shout.