If he can’t, he’ll have to borrow a burrow and cart, which will make him late with his quota, resulting in substantially less pay for his work. It’s been this way for as long as he can remember; his days spent in his tiny shop weaving the beads onto strong cords, tying them off, and laying the completed work aside.

Once every two weeks, he makes the drive out of his small mountain village along a rutted, dirt road to deliver his work and pick up new supplies. With the meager cash he receives, he stops at the market and then makes the long journey back to his village to begin his work anew.

The village itself is comprised of only twenty thatched houses that sit astride a potholed mountain road. A few of the more industrious and lucky villagers have found plywood sheets which they’ve added to their crowded structures. The village and those within once had more when the occasional tourists made their way into the mountains. Since the guerillas moved into the area, those treks from the cities below have fallen off, impoverishing the small settlement even more. More depressing is the fact that many of the youth have run off with the various guerilla bands that make their bases in the mountains.

Ramon has never been interested in politics and has no idea what the guerillas are fighting about. He just knows that many of the younger ones have left, whether that is with the bands, or journeying to the city in the hopes of finding a better life. All he understands is that, with the beginning of the fighting, trade has fallen off. He will admit that the group that has established themselves farther up the road in the mountains has helped the village with food and medicines. For that alone, they have the loyalty of the people.

Many villagers survive day to day by growing food in small plots near the edge of the village. There are some who have become involved in the drug trade, hiring themselves out as runners or digging small bunkers in their houses to store the packages. One group would come in and drop off the drugs which were then picked up by another, leaving the money behind. Then, the first group would come back, collect the cash, and leave additional bundles.

Ramon remembers one of his friends who was involved and began filching small amounts of the drugs to sell on the black market. He tried to get Ramon to become a part and use his trips into the town to sell the drugs. Ramon not only refused, but warned him that he would eventually be caught. He still sees the face of his friend when he shrugged, and continued his activities. Two weeks later, his friend was pulled out of his house and beheaded in the middle of the road in front of everyone. To his knowledge, no one else has tried skimming from the drug lords.

Slipping on his aged sandals, Ramon rises and gropes for the pull string hanging from the single light in his small bedroom. Finding the cord, he pulls on it with a certain amount of hopefulness. The village has electricity but it’s intermittent at best and there isn’t enough to power more than the smallest equipment. He has been putting some of his money aside in the hopes of buying a generator and a supply of gas, but that is more of a dream as most of his money goes toward surviving another day.

The bulb winks on, casting a feeble light throughout his bedroom. Glancing at the lone bulb in the fixture hanging from a thin strand of wire, he can see the filament burning. The light is more of a glow which leaves much of the room in shadow. Plodding to the outer room, which serves as a living room and kitchen, he pulls on another light cord in the middle of the room.

It will be a long day and he may not have a chance to eat until he returns close to nightfall. With that in mind, he uses a long, wooden match to light a small propane stove sitting on a plywood counter. He’ll make himself a quick breakfast before gathering his supplies. Adjusting the flame, he looks sharply toward his one window that is next to the door facing the road.

Was that a scream?

Turning the flame down to conserve his meager propane, he walks to the window. The sound he heard was faint but, in the quiet of the early morning hour, it was distinct. Pulling aside the tattered curtain, he peers into the darkness.

Faint screams penetrate the night.