Twisted Cross

The boys talked all night, sketched out the dock and their escape route with a stick in the dirt and hardly slept a wink. The next day Sal’s scheme did not go as planned.

   “Forgive me, Blas, please move. Say something,” Sal said. “Lo siento, sorry, sorry, sorry,” he muttered. It was his plan that landed them both in this rat-infested jail. His best friend lay curled on the filthy floor next to him. Badly beaten, Blas struggled for his life.

   “They only keep prisoners here for seven days. The guy in the next cell said so,” Sal said. “You can hold on.” Blas did not move. Sal could do nothing for him but blabber on and try to sound hopeful. “He also told me first-time prisoners give los ratones, the rats, names! Can you believe it? I named this rat Chaco.”

To keep from going crazy, he turned to talk to the little brown rodent. He desperately wanted someone to talk to. At least Chaco listened.

   “Chaco, I know where to find a big block of tasty cheese, queso,” Sal said. His mind ran in circles thinking how his plan went so wrong. Like some loco, a crazy man, he talked to a stupid rat. Chaco ran in circles too, his whiskers twitched. “My part worked perfectly. But my fat friend here stumbled during the getaway. Beaten, then arrested, now we are stuck in this tiny cell with you, little whiskers.”