S amuel finished off the last of two roast beef sandwiches, potato chips, dill pickles, and his second can of orange soda, pushed back his cushiony chair, propped his feet up on the cushion and closed his eyes.
More hungry than he realized, Samuel felt like he could’ve eaten two more sandwiches, but didn’t ask. He didn’t want to be so stuffed that he couldn’t run away if he got the chance. He had no idea where they were headed or when they would land. He guessed they’d been flying for over five hours, maybe seven, but he wasn’t sure.
The plane suddenly shook and rocked violently. Samuel looked around the cabin. Sister Bravo and the others were asleep, and except for Father Murphy, who slightly lifted his head then let it fall back in his chair, nobody moved. With nothing to do and nowhere to go, Samuel fell back down in his chair and let his heavy lids fall, drifting off into a deep sleep.
“Samuel, wake up, it’s time.”
Samuel opened his eyes, sleep blurring his vision. The soft purr of the plane’s jet engines ceased. Samuel reached out and gave his mother, Alison Napier, a hug.
“We’ve missed you so much,” she said, stroking his hair.
“I’ve missed you too,” he told her, eyes wet.
Samuel tried to express how much he missed her, but the words didn’t come. He hugged her tighter, determined not to let go. He looked up at his mother’s face through blurry eyes, water streaming down his cheeks. His vision cleared. The purr of the engines returned. Samuel awakened.
“We’re landing,” Sister Bravo told him, looking down. “It’s time to get back in the box.”
Samuel, confused, looked up, searching for his mother’s face.
Sister Bravo shook him firmly. “I said get back in the box.” Clarity rushed in, dousing Samuel like ice water. His senses returned .
I can’t get back in the crate. I’ll never get away. His hands quivered. He stared at the crate, watching Father Sin open one side and holding it for him to crawl inside.
“It’ll only be for a short time,” Sister Bravo told him, reading his thoughts.
“I promise I’ll do everything you say,” said Samuel, jumping to his feet. “Please, don’t make me get back in the box. I’ll be good, I swear.” Sister Bravo smiled, her eyes suspicious. “Why should we trust you?
Only hours ago, you were defiant and cursing.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. It won’t happen again.”
“Nein,” snapped Father Sin, his German accent thick, commanding.
“Get back in the box.”
“Yes,” added Father Murphy. “It’s the safest way.” Samuel looked back and forth between both priests and took a step toward the box. Urine, a small blot spreading into a large one, soaked his trousers, and a quiver that started with his hands, turned into an all-out, all-over quake.
“Wait,” said Sister Bravo. She walked in front of Samuel. “Okay,” she said, her face still not fully convinced. “You’ll walk through customs with Fathers Sin and Murphy, but if you so much as cough wrong, we’ll kill you. Understood?”
Samuel nodded his head, calm and relieved.
“Get his papers,” she told Father Murphy, walking to a small suitcase, removing a fresh pair of blue jeans. “Go to the bathroom and put these on,” she continued. “And hurry up, we’ll be landing soon.” Samuel scurried off to the bathroom. Once inside, his shaking stopped. He looked down at the piss-stained trousers, smiled, then looked in the mirror. The two cans of orange soda showed up just in time, a crowning touch to his begging. He changed quickly, took several deep breaths and braced himself. He exited the bathroom with a false submissive gratefulness on his face.
Just one chance. Just one.