Raphael didn't know how long he'd been locked up. He guessed it was about three days.
Every so often, Kuchilo's men would open the door and toss in a bottle of water and a corn tortilla.
Counting the one from a few hours ago, this was the third time.
The basement had no windows, and the fluorescent light overhead switched on and off at random.
The space wasn't large, about ten square meters. The walls were bare concrete, the floor was covered with a waterproof plastic sheet, and a plastic bucket was tossed in the corner.
It looked like a half-finished room.
He sat slumped in a corner.
The physical pain from a few days ago had faded, but the burning in his stomach was far worse.
One tortilla a day was barely enough to keep him alive. Long before the second food delivery, hunger had already morphed from a sensation into a tangible, agonizing pain. It felt like a hand was relentlessly wringing out his stomach, twisting it into knots and making his head buzz.
