Seven-year-old Canelo pushed his nine-year old brother out of the way as his mama marked his height on the clay wall next to the tiny kitchen door.

“Oh, Canelo,” she chided. “No mango for you, my son, if you don’t play nice.” She put the black marker in her apron.

“I’m taller?” he asked, his eyes wide with hope. Canelo loved sweet fruit, but nothing meant more to him than his desire to grow an inch or three.

“You are…smarter, my son.” She chuckled softly and continued to help two preteen daughters make masa.

“Mama,” he implored, “did I grow?”

“No!” One of his sisters laughed while placing rice into a serving bowl for dinner.

Before he could push her, the front door opened. Three older brothers strolled into the house with their father. They placed their boots by the door and closed it, taking a seat at the table. His sisters set utensils on the table for dinner as his father popped the back of his older brothers’ heads.

“You just came from the field! Go wash!” he ordered, following them into the only bathroom that the family of ten owned.

As the nine of them sat down for dinner, the front door burst open. The intruder interrupted their prayer. A young Canelo sat in shock, gawking at the richest man on the entire universe. In his short life, he had never seen someone dressed in a suit that hadn’t frayed. This man had on gold rings and a necklace. The man had big, mirror sunglasses. Canelo admired the Mexican’s white suit and cream shoes.

“Get out of my house!” His father took a stand.

“Have you taken into consideration our business proposal?”

“No!” Mama stood. Her wood chair fell back and tumbled to the floor. Her hand went to the gold cross around her neck as she spoke, “We will plant food and only food!”

The dignified man picked up her chair slowly. “The entire town is complying with my wishes, so allow me to be foolish enough to provide you with one more chance.”

His smile indicated for her to sit. Canelo looked at his father. For a moment, Papa’s head dipped into a nod, but Mama frowned and voiced, “No!”

“All right.” The man gave a whistle. Two armed police officers swarmed into the tiny hut. The well-dressed man circled his finger in the air and the two cops took action. One kicked the dinner table. It flung into the air, sending food and dishes crashing to the floor. Canelo and his younger brother pushed their chairs back closer to the walls, since there wasn’t much room. A cop slid the table out of the way. Now the family of two daughters and five sons faced each other.

The man in charge picked up a gasoline can from near the front door.

“Call me crazy, but I forgot your answer.” The wealthy man, with a determined expression, calculated his movements as he went toward Canelo’s father.

“Juan Junior.” He smiled at the first-born son. “Please tell me what your father and mother have decided?”

Juan Junior’s head was held high, eyes tearing up, but he said not a word.

“Look at those strong legs.” The man signaled and the two cops poured fluid onto Juan’s lower body. Toxic gas began to clog the room.

“We—” Juan Senior began in a voice of defeat.

“We said no!” Canelo’s mother argued. She had more convictions in her pinky finger than he had bones in his body.

The man pulled a small silver case from his pocket. He unlatched it and pulled out a cigar. He let it dangle between big, white teeth. While one officer tied Juan Junior to his seat, the other swiped a match, holding it up for him. “Thank you.” He nodded, while taking an inhale of the sweet concoction.

“Juan Junior, I’m nervous. Very nervous. Are you?” he asked, worried mocking expression of concern on his face as he puffed on his cigar.

“Mama!” Juan Junior screamed as the lit match fell onto his left leg. The orange-blue and red flames instantly engulfed his body. Fire licked around him and his upper body wriggled with agony. An ear-shattering cry tore through the tiny home.

Canelo’s eyes were glued to Junior’s. There were flames in the black depths. Fear clamped his throat, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth.

“Forgive me, Maria,” the man shouted over Juan Junior’s sobs. “You are a close family. I should include everyone in the festivities. Where is the baby? There are eight children, no?”

When Maria didn’t reply he told the cops, “Tie and gag everyone but Mrs. Maria,” as he disappeared down the hall. He came back with four-month-old Bernice, cooing innocently.

“You are the devil!” Maria spat just as her husband cried for her to agree.

Canelo’s brothers and sisters quietly sniffled, each one trembling in their chairs.

“Then where is your God?” The man sneered as he continued to hold the baby in his arms. “Oh, the baby, pretty girl. You’re hungry. Pray to your God, Maria. See who the provider is. Me or Him,” he said, pulling out his gun. Maria broke down crying, yet he placed the tip of his Magnum in Bernice’s mouth. “No worries, Maria. Let me see if the baby’s hungry.”

“Stop, please, we agree!” Juan Senior shouted.

“We will not.” Maria shook with rage. “Our God will avenge us.”

The sadistic man ignored her and chuckled. “Well, she is sucking. Rather a bullet than…” He sat the child in her mama’s lap. Maria held the baby tightly, whispering a prayer in Bernice’s ear.

Canelo finally looked back at his eldest brother. He hadn’t noticed the cries die out. The noise still rung in his ears, but as he stared at Junior, his brother’s eyes were closed, mouth shut, all so peacefully despite the charred lower half of his body. Canelo’s ears would forever be tormented by the sound.

The entire family was doused in gasoline. Canelo stared across at his mama as he choked on the bitter taste when he went to scream. His eyes snapped back to the man.

“Now, being that I’m a fair man, who shall we save, Maria?” the man questioned, walking around between them. He stopped to eye each child intently. “Maria, you were so vocal a minute ago. Which one of your children should live?”

He nodded for one of the two cops. The butt of a shotgun went to Maria’s mouth. She held the baby tightly as she fell to the floor.

The rich man stopped right before her. As blood and spit was spewed in his direction, he backed away for a second. He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to Maria. “Wipe your mouth. Since you’ve been so persistent, please inform me as to who of your children you wish to spare?”

Juan Senior shook his head ‘no’ as Mama’s eyes held the first glint of hope. Her eyes connected with Canelo’s as she struggled to get up to her feet.

Before he knew it, his mom screamed his name.

“That sick bastard could’ve saved your baby sister.” Mary Jane rubbed the tears in her eyes, sitting Indian style on her bed.

Canelo continued to pace back and forth.

“So, your tormentor had mercy?” Mary Jane held in her emotions as he told his story. At first, she searched for a connection. Something to manipulate him, probably not on the level that Hurricane was molded, but something. Now she was engrossed in the life that had been wrenched from him.

“Mercy? A lifetime of torment is more like it,” Canelo replied. He nudged his square chin to the oily bag he’d placed on the tiny bedside table. “Now eat your dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Aye, Dios!” he snapped. “You promised to eat if I told you how I know so much about nightmares.”

Sympathy and trust were on two different playing fields for Mary Jane. She asked him, “Your abductors let you live. I’ve asked you a thousand times, what you want from me, Canelo. Why you and Soledad abducted me. You won’t say a thing. So now, I’m beseeching you to allow me to live.”

Canelo stopped right before her, yet his eyes didn’t meet hers. “They won’t kill you.”

“They? Who is they? You’re lying to me!” Mary Jane shouted. He ignored her and walked out of the room.