The Devil's Labyrinth

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THE OLDER BOY laid a gentle hand on the younger one’s shoulder. “Ready, Paquito?”

The younger boy choked back his tears and nodded, determined not to let his brother see how sad he was. Avoiding his brother’s gaze, he instead kept his eyes fastened on the box in his hands, the cardboard box he was clutching so hard its sides were starting to give way.

“Okay, then. Let’s go.” The older boy was armed with a rusty shovel from the old potting shed behind what used to be a stable, but was now a small apartment his parents rented out to vacationing Americanos. He led the way across the overgrown courtyard to a space between three palm trees, which hadn’t yet been choked by the foliage that always seemed to grow back faster than even both brothers could cut it. “Here, okay?”

The smaller boy eyed the spot carefully, but then his gaze shifted to the small grotto that was almost invisible in the deep shadows of the farthest corner of the courtyard. “No,” he said, his voice soft but certain. “Over there. Next to the Blessed Virgin.”

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