Dead Man's Land by Jack Patterson (digital e reader .txt) 📕

the Isle of Pines. He swung the bat several times with authority before digging into the batter’s box.

The first pitch from the coach affectionately known as El Gordito sailed wide of home plate. The second pitch zoomed right down the middle, which Prado promptly belted over the left field wall. He put his left hand to his forehead and smiled as he watched the ball disappear.

“Who do you think you are? Yasiel Puig?” El Gordito snapped.

Prado grinned and readied for the next pitch. Gordito fired a fastball over the outer half of the plate. Prado didn’t miss that one either, unleashing a vicious swing that sent a screaming line drive toward right field that bounced off the wall.

“Save it for the game tomorrow,” El Gordito said.

Too bad I won’t be here.

Prado nodded and smiled. He went through the motions, knowing full well he’d never be there when La Bayamesa, the Cuban National Anthem, was played before the Grapefruit Cutters’ playoff game with the Nationales, Havana’s version of the New York Yankees. They didn’t have a chance at winning the series—and everyone on Isla de la Juventud knew it. The Nationales stacked their team each season, making most years seem like a six-month-long coronation of Cuba’s champions. Prado had no reservations about skipping out on such a contrived event, especially if it meant gaining his freedom and playing in front of thousands of people.

After practice, he walked home along Calle 32 toward his allotted housing with the sound of Timba music echoing through the state-ordained barrio. His apartment was better than most since he played baseball, but it didn’t feel like a place to be cherished. Iron bars reached skyward on the uninhabitable third floor of his building. The other two teammates who lived with him didn’t treat it like the palace it supposedly was—at least according to his coaches. Prado stomped on a cockroach as he entered the house and slid the carcass under the small refrigerator with his foot. Without giving it much thought, he estimated that it was the fifth one he had crushed this week and “buried” there. It was Wednesday.

He opened the fridge and searched for something to eat. It was mostly barren, but he scrounged around until he found some fruit and a small piece of pork. He slathered the meat in oil and flour before frying it up.

“Are you going to see Isabel today?” asked Julio Domingo, one of his teammates.

Prado spun around, unaware that he wasn’t alone. He nodded.

“She’s got a lot of charisma,” Julio said. “Just like her papa.”

Prado forced a smile and continued cooking. If there was anything that could snap him out of the doldrums, it was spending a few minutes with Isabel. Even at age two, she effused exuberance for life. She clapped her hands and shook her hips without much coaxing, ultimately transforming even the dourest demeanor in the room into a smile. She was the only reason he hesitated to follow through with his plan to leave the island—even while she was the one driving him to do it.

She deserves a better life—like me.

Prado wondered if he could actually make it happen. But he had to try. Remaining on the island doomed him to something far less than what he wanted. Plus, he’d heard the tales of the treasure and a life of freedom awaiting him across a small patch of blue ocean. He was determined to see if he could make it happen. If he got out, he’d figure out a way to get her out too. Or so he thought.

He jammed the spatula beneath the thin piece of pork and slid it onto his plate. In a matter of minutes, it was gone—along with the fruit.

Julio glanced at the clock on the wall behind Prado and pointed at it. “You better hurry. You know how Liliana hates it when you’re late.”

Prado shoved his chair back and stood up. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he announced as he exited the house.

He hustled along the street, stopping to sign a few autographs for young adoring fans as he shook his hips to the pulsating rhythms of Timba music blasting from the windows of several houses.

“Are you going to beat the Nationales?” one kid asked.

“We’ll do our best,” Prado answered. It was true. The team would definitely try, even if he wasn’t part of it when the two teams met on the field. But beating Havana’s best team—and the goliath of the Cuban National Series league—was unlikely even if they played their best.

He sauntered along for another block before he ran into another acquaintance, his English tutor, Juan Garcia. “Bueno suerte, El Roque,” Juan said as he tipped his cap.

Prado forced a smile and nodded. “Gracias.”

As he rounded the corner, a woman grabbed his arm. “Please, can you help my son? He’s stuck in the tree.”

He didn’t want to arrive any later than he already was—but he couldn’t leave the boy up in the tree. Tears flowed from the kid’s face and dropped on the ground next to Prado.

I’m sure she’ll understand.

Prado took a firm grip on a lower brand and hoisted himself up into the tree. He navigated the branches until he reached the boy.

“Don’t cry. I’ve got you now.”

He held the boy tightly as he climbed down. Once on the ground, he delivered the kid to his mother.

“Thank you,” she said.

Prado nodded and smiled before breaking into a slight jog in the direction of Liliana’s apartment. A minute later, he knocked on Liliana’s door.

Liliana, her hair pulled back and taut, greeted him at the door with little more than a sigh. She waved him inside with her mixing spoon. Chichi Peralta’s “Me Enamore” wafted through the house.

Prado stopped in front of her and smiled. “Our song.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get any ideas. We’re not getting back together.”

He cocked his head to the side and furrowed his brow. “Mi amor.”

She turned his head with her hand and pointed with her spoon across the room. “Su