Juventud. Vanessa Blakeslee

needed to move, to walk. The caller had known me—did I know him? Might he have been one of the jefes, or even Fidel, disguised, delivering the threats at my father’s demand? I roamed downstairs into the darkened living room and lowered onto the tile, the coolness rising to the bottoms of my feet as I leaned back against Papi’s chair. I yearned for the dogs, their furry muzzles and solid warmth; they slept on an old mattress on his balcony. I remained as the terrorist had wanted me: paralyzed by fear, and alone. Until a chain jingled, and Angel slowly hopped down the stairs on her three legs, climbed into my lap. Calmer now, I crawled into bed.

      But I slipped in and out of sleep, only to awaken in a sweat. I saw myself ripped out of a crowd, hauled into the back of a camouflaged Jeep, beaten with a rifle butt in an encampment shrouded with leaves. In some dreams I was abducted alone; in others Manuel and I were together, sometimes Emilio as well, jostled by masked men. The guerillas swept their guns in our direction, as if spraying hoses, yelling, and I heard again the voice on the phone. My dreams possessed the sensory sharpness of visions: the sweaty stink of the guerillas’ body odor, mixed with damp earth and the smoke of campfires, the snaps and swishes of the jungle.

      In one I was marched to a drop-off to be killed. I could see across and down to the next mountain slope. It appeared bottomless. Even in the dream I realized this was a view I had experienced as a child: on a visit to Costa Rica we had once taken a zip-line rainforest tour. Nowhere else did such giant, ancient, exquisite trees exist. I wept with shock that this was the simple, final end, but also with joy at sight of the trees, each as magnificent and breathtaking as a view of Earth from space.

      The guerilla told me to look ahead, to not turn around. I felt the barrel of his gun press into the back of my skull.

      In none of my dreams did anyone come for us.