After Don Vizzini dropped us off, Miss Rosa led Weatherby and me up a secluded mountain trail. The hills around Havana were muddy and green, with tall tropical trees closing in on all sides, and a narrow trail winding between them. The air was humid and the leaves seemed slick, like even the plants were sweating. I tramped along in front of Rosa Dominguez. She didn’t seem too tired.
“You don’t mind the heat?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I’m used to it. Just a little further and we’ll reach their camp. But I don’t want to be there when they put you in front of a firing line. These are hardened rebels. They won’t even give you a cigarette and blindfold.”
“Fine by me. I brought my own smokes and I want to look the bastard who kills me in the eye.”
Weatherby caught up to me. He was faring the worst of all of us. His pale face was beat red and his face was streaked with sweat. Even his tie was askew. “Can you stop your jabbering?” he asked. “For God’s sake, a child’s life is at stake.”