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him. “ Me — erde, ” he repeats. “I’m not going to say his words.” He turns to Danielle. “What’s he going to do? Shoot us — every one? How’s he going to get his million, or whatever he wants, if we’re all dead? I’m here for El Salvador. For the people. To learn. Do they even know? Why we came ’ere?”
    Pepe looks towards Danielle too, his eyes glowing with interest. He’s waiting for the Spanish. But Danielle can’t produce it. Why is she here? Not for the same reasons as Pierre who, for all his bluster, probably really has come on this observational delegation because of his idealism and for its stated aim of seeing how rural Salvadorans live, listening to their stories about the trouble a foreign mine is causing them. Danielle’s own agenda goes so far beyond this her tongue cannot form words for it. Which might be reasonable enough, except that Pepe is reaching for his gun — his second, smaller one. As he untucks it from the belt of his fatigues, Danielle flashes back to the moment on the bus, just after Pierre pissed his pants. His eyes weren’t only red and scared. They were vicious. He was humiliated, belittled. He looks exactly like that now, as Pepe rushes him. He’s still wearing the same pants.
    â€œI am not a tourist,” Pierre yells. “You have to listen.”
    Pepe picks the young man up by the collar with one fist. Pepe is shorter by nearly a foot, but he has heavy, muscular legs and those big, dense arms that Danielle knows firsthand are capable of applying crushing pressure. He pushes Pierre backwards, towards a tree, which the young man thumps against hard.
    Antoine steps forward, as if to help, but Tina has the good sense to put a hand to his chest before any of the kidnappers can react.
    â€œ Daniela! ” says Pepe, raising his voice to Pierre but addressing her.
    Right. Translation. Danielle stutters out in Spanish everything Pierre has said about the delegation coming to El Salvador for the people, that they aren’t tourists.
    Taking in this information, Pepe still seems relatively calm, like he’s confident that he can intimidate Pierre out of whatever notions of bravery have gripped his immature mind. He doesn’t even raise his voice. “Tell this desgraciado puto that if he’s ready to die for El Salvador, to say one more word.”
    Danielle translates through sudden tears.
    â€œTell him I think he’s bluffing,” says Pierre, seething.
    â€œNo, Pierre! Don’t do this,” Danielle says, but immediately regrets it. Her words sound chastising, parental. She imagines Aida hearing them, crossing her arms. “Just stop, please,” she implores. “Stop talking.”
    â€œWhy should I? He has to listen — to you especially. You’re the one who wrote abou —” Pierre catches himself, changes tack. “You’re supposed to be the leader!”
    But it’s too late. Pepe pins Pierre by the neck and turns to Danielle, his laser eyes finding hers. “What did he say?”
    â€œHe says. . .”
    â€œTell me!” Pepe yells, and Danielle can see that his calm is breaking, ready to splinter like a homemade bomb. His gun is pressed directly to Pierre’s head.
    Danielle knows that they are all going to suffer for Pierre’s big mouth. For her past, too. She wishes she’d burned those letters. Then she wouldn’t even be here. She and Aida could’ve gone on like before. “He says you should listen to us.”
    â€œHe said ‘wrote.’ What about writing? Who wrote?” Then, though he seems already to understand, Pepe repeats at the top of his lungs “WHO?”
    â€œI did,” says Danielle.
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œI came to write about la guerrilla .” She’s scrambling again, needs to rescue herself. “It was just a student newspaper, and they took — I lost my notes.