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passes.
    Sitting upright Daniel continues, “The first bullet flew through pillows my sister had stacked on a leather bench. It traveled through the bathroom wall, exploding the ceramic bowl. That
hombre
carried a powerful gun, a Governor.
    “The second bullet ripped through the cop. Guts spilled across the carpeted floor. My self-defense pleas were thrown out.”
    In a quiet voice he explains, “Murder of a federal officer carries a mandatory life sentence.”
    Daniel continues. Reaching for Christopher’s hand he says, “Remember no place or status can keep you safe on
La Luna
.” Daniel’s arm falls away. Christopher’s head leans against the truck panel. Eyes closed he falls into a restless sleep. Lost, irate, terrified, confused in his mind’s eye he sees Master Jojo. Sitting at attention, “You have everything you need to master each day Christopher.”
    He curls tightly, arms casting his broken ribs, rolling to his side he pulls himself into the fetal position. He reviews events beginning with his drive across the border. He keeps each breath shallow to master the pain. He feels his parent’s terror. “You have everything you need to master each day, each challenge.”
    When the van grinds to a stop at a dock in La Paz Christopher guesses the time around midnight. A flood light hangs on a tall light post encircled by hundreds of bugs and swiftly darting bats. From the boat a rough voice commands, “Do your business off the dock. We are many hours to Mazatlan and our stop for supplies. My guard will shoot you if you try to run or swim away.”
    Hours later, huddled in a corner of the boat, Christopher agonizes over the fear his parents are suffering. The burden too much to bear he shuffles over to Daniel, “Please, tell me more about the island.”
    Daniel moves to accommodate his bruises. He nods. “Okay
amigo
. Sixty miles southwest off the coast of Mexico, in the center of Hurricane Alley, are four small islands known as The Three Marias. First they were a hideout for pirates because the islands have artesian springs.”
    “How did the islands become a prison?” asks Christopher.
    “A deposit of salt discovered. Also discovered; an abundance of the agave plant used in producing
Tequila
. The government wanted cheap labor to harvest both salt and agave.  The prison was set up in the 1930’s.”
    Daniel coughs. Christopher can see the bruises of finger prints around his throat. They fall silent. He has fallen asleep when Daniel speaks again. Jerking awake, every bit of information is vital. “There are gangs who harvest the agave, others the salt, another gang does repair and maintenance. A leader will come and meet you.
    “I’ll be whipped or worse…”
    Daniel’s voice falls away, his mind absorbed in the punishments awaiting him. Black circles under his eyes speak to Christopher of a raccoon.
A raccoon chews off his own foot for freedom
.
    Just past dawn they chug into the Mazatlan harbor. The skipper parks next to a yacht King’s Run, San Diego, California. A woman lounges on the deck. Christopher guesses her age in her fifties. Trim and toned wearing a one piece bathing suit and matching sarong tied at her waist. Christopher inhales sharply. Is this an opportunity for help? The Captain and boat hands climb the dock to organize several pallets of supplies.
    Christopher seizes the moment. Half yell, half whisper he calls, “Hey lady! I’m a United States citizen. I’m kidnapped, held hostage.” She doesn’t move. He cannot discern if she heard him. He calls out more loudly, “My name; Christopher Marcos.” Still no expression crosses her features. Christopher’s anxiety soars. His heart pounds, he’s running out of time. Boat hands have started loading supplies. “Call Rabbi Foxx the Wilshire Temple in Beverly Hills,” enunciating each word carefully he continues, “tell him to look for Christopher Marcos on
Islas Tres Marias
!”
    Christopher is panting with the effort to yell