When the lights flickered out, I saw the evil smile on the face staring in from the other side of the window, and my heart lurched when I realized I hadn’t locked the doors.

My heart was pounding as I dashed to the kitchen door and twisted the deadbolt in place and then quickly ran into the living room to the front door and secured that lock.

One of the men walked over to us. “Cállete!” he yelled, sticking the barrel of the rifle in our faces and then moving it and the stock to beckon us to start walking. He took us over to where Cecil was standing with the Federale’s gun pointed at him and bound the three of us together. The two women were further away tied to a tree, which made me really angry to see. I needed to figure out a way to get us out of this mess.

At the end of my home-office day, at this newest questionable RV Park, I sat out under the awning, sipping wine, waiting. Our usual Happy Hour was unusually late. But I wasn't going to let myself stew about it too much and allow my imagination to boil over so that a fight would ensue, but as the time ticked away, squelching an over-active imagination was becoming more difficult. Did this lateness have anything to do with any of the babes I had seen at the restaurant bar? Was he becoming too fixated on those enhanced boobs to pay attention to time? I couldn't help but wonder.

My heart was hammering and I nearly missed the noise in the background. I had to strain to hear. There was a thrumming noise, constant in its rhythm that would be accompanied by a sharper whack, like the striking of a hammer. But then a new sound caused us to stop in our tracks — chilling my bones. A scream. I clutched Marty’s arm.

“What the hell was that?” I whispered.

The plan for that winter’s Mexico trip was for Mac and I to go to our usual west coast campground with our “beater” travel trailer for a month to visit and then say goodbye to the friends we’d made, before heading to the east coast to pick up my daughter Isabelle, also a diver, from the Cancun airport on New Year’s Day.

A heavy breath of air slid from her mouth. Swallowing hard, a flash from her childhood crowded uninvited into her mental visuals.

A young Emily sat in a tall wooden chair wanting to disappear through the slats as she pressed her slender back against them. Her grandmother’s sallow face was just inches from her own, a saggy mask of bulging eyes and stretched out mouth full of yellowed teeth. Sour breath blew into the wide-eyed face as the old woman screeched out her warning.

Darkness hovered around the perimeter of the kitchen unable to venture too close to the dim rays that drifted from the hooded bulb over the table. Sitting on the edge of a wooden chair, Emily leaned into the protective glow, with elbows propped on a worn, ragged mat. Glancing down at the quilted fabric, she saw frayed edges and broken threads that reminded her of seedlings reaching up to catch the light. She understood that need, but looked away, tightening her grip around the mug she held pressed against her cheek.

Walking along the edge of the warm Caribbean sea, flicking sand with your toes as you go from the wet onto the dry, trying to avoid the tide as it rolls in closer, not wanting to get your feet wet. Getting wet would be fine, as the temps are in the low 80’s, the breeze is warm and balmy, but as a game, you see how close to the water you can get without letting the surf touch you.

Just past twilight, dark enough to notice the spotlights ahead to our left, Mac and I walked toward the restaurant, hand in hand, playfully bumping hips, looking forward to dancing at the karaoke-dance event. We slowed our steps, wondering about the lights, the commotion, and the hum of voices we could hear at Mel and Dora’s palapa down the street across from our destination. Something major was going on to warrant the intense illumination and draw in so many people.