Prisoner 243 contrived to gain access to the upper corridor every morning before any of the other inmates were awake. Only he and the Tarahumara Indian had permission to leave their cells a full two hours before the official time. Arranging it had been easy. Benjamín, who continued to play the catatonic prisoner during the monthly visit of his mother’s attorney, had instructed his bodyguard on Mangel what to say.

“Sir, we’ve noticed that Captain Nyman seems to perk up a little whenever we wheel him outdoors and the air is cool.”

“The captain reacts?” The attorney swung around to stare at the man in the wheelchair who was facing the wall.

“Oh, just the slighest flutter of the eyes, nothing more!” Mangel rushed to divert the man’s attention away from Benjamín. “Yet it is something—a bit of hope. Well, not enough to get his dear mother’s hopes up! We wouldn’t want to do that, but enough to make us keep trying to bring him around ever so slowly. Anyway, we think that the captain would benefit greatly by being allowed out of his cell every morning before the others, so he can enjoy fresh air without being jostled or troubled by the rougher element of this establishment. Since you are authorized by the family to pay the necessary compensation to the warden . . .”

It was arranged.

At first Benjamín and the Tarahumara Indian were closely guarded. It wasn’t long, though, before it became apparent to the guards that the morning routine was nothing more than a rich man’s whim and a poor man’s obsession. Escape was not the object. Benjamin had paid the bribes simply so he could watch the Indian run free.

For Benjamín, it was also about surreptitiously restoring strength to his legs while perpetuating the illusion that he was still completely wheelchair-bound. In his cell, he had his bodyguards work his legs as Dr. Siqueiros had originally instructed, but his legs felt utterly mechanical and separate from him—pistons that moved only when moved by others. On his own, he was able to take no more than a stumbling step before collapsing. On the other hand, he could work successfully on upper body strength, regaining muscle tone in his arms, back and chest. But even doing pushups required that one of his bodyguards position his feet and grip them tightly to keep them from splaying out under the weight of his inert legs. Benjamín worked tirelessly, clinging to the hope that at least the exercises would keep his muscles from atrophying.

As for the early morning run, he had to content himself with simply observing the Tarahumara. Yet Benjamín soon began pulling himself out of his chair, leaning heavily against the railing as he watched. He worked up to the point where he could stand unassisted, from a few seconds to a full five minutes before slumping back into his chair. Day by day he grew stronger, remembering to sit down simply to maintain the illusion of his disability. One morning the Tarahumara ran past him, then circled back and murmured, “Come with me.”

“No. I’m not ready.” Benjamín clutched the railing, his wheelchair ready to catch him.

The Tarahumara disappeared into the dark, pre-dawn chill and ducked into his cell. A few minutes later he reappeared. Without breaking his stride, he pulled up alongside the wheelchair. Running in place, he held out a gourd.

“Drink this.”

“What is it?” Benjamín stared up into the dark, angular lines of a face he did not yet know how to read. It was granite-hard, immutable and ageless. Was the man thirty years old or sixty? He seemed at once youthful and old.

“Iskiate.”        

“Getting me drunk won’t change the fact that my legs are dead.” Benjamín handed back the gourd.

The Tarahumara continued to run in place. “It’s not what you think. Drink it.”

In a flash, the man was off again, his bare feet gently skimming across the cold tiles. El Brujo—“The Witch Doctor,” as the inmates called the Tarahumara—was rumored to be a full-fledged shaman. Benjamín’s interest in him was as a runner. He noted that the man seemed to defy gravity, his feet barely touching the ground, his back straight as a knife, knees slightly bent, feet shuffling in a kind of tip-toeing motion, never punching or pounding. After making another circuit, he returned to Benjamín.

“All of it.” And he was off again.

Nyman stared into a murky slime. What’s the shaman put into it? Mouse droppings and frog eggs? He smelled the brew. It had a faint scent of lime. Well, what the hell! Benjamín took a mouthful and spit it out. The thick, custard-like texture startled him, yet it left a pleasant aftertaste of lime in his mouth. Don’t think. Just drink it.

Twenty minutes or so after he had downed it and the shaman had not yet returned, Benjamín pulled himself out of his chair and peered over the railing into the courtyard below. Where the devil has he gone? He was halfway down the corridor before he stopped and shot a startled look at his abandoned wheelchair.

“Brujo! Brujo!” He half-shouted, half-laughed the name. A hawk shadow flew past him, then circled around him.

“Run!” The Tarahumara spoke softly by his side.