The most important call of my life

After Eric left the pub, I hadn't moved from my hiding place beneath the bar for over an hour. At least I think so, my sense of time has really deteriorated. Repeated weeks of being held hostage in a dark room would do it. Finally, the hippo who calls himself Tiny pulled me by the arm and shook me until I stopped being hysterical.

When I had calmed down, I asked, "Why are you helping me?"

The guy just frowned at me. “Because you look like you really need help. And you're American."

He led me outside, where the bartender, Javier, was waiting in an old pickup truck, rusty pale blue of unknown origin. I was afraid to get in the car. How would I know where they were going to take me, or what they were going to do once they got me where they wanted to go. All I know is that Tiny told me that I would be safe and that he would help me. If I had more options, I would avoid that sloppy motorcyclist as far as possible. The truth is this: I had no better choice, and he knew it. So I got into