It was painted a pale green color I had seen in hospitals, and stirred up memories of Timmee, near death at the San Agustin Hospital. Every now and again, a guard knocked and quickly opened the door, checking to see how we were doing. What’s the matter? He didn’t seriously think that Annabel and I could squeeze out of those steel-barricaded casement windows, did he?

The commander’s office was not unusually large. There was a massive mahogany desk at one end of the room, and above it hung a portrait of Ferdinand Marcos and another one of a uniformed man I did not recognize. Under the desk was an oriental rug and next to it was a pole flying a Philippine flag. There was a map of the Philippines posted on the wall across from the door. The yellowish light from the ceiling fixtures illuminated the room, casting a depressing glow on the green walls. I avoided looking at Marcos’ picture. A well of anger always swelled inside me whenever I saw him on TV or in the newspaper. Knowing he was looking over where I would sleep tonight was like a sword hanging over my head. Of course they wanted to remind me I could never get away from Marcos’ grasp. When I saw his eyes bearing down on me, he seemed to be saying that he was my guard, my jailer, and my executioner. I vowed not to look at his picture again for as long as I slept in the office.

Annabel, who was speaking next to me with her soothing voice, eased some of the queasiness I felt. How could she be so brave?I took note of her features, as if seeing her for the first time, appreciating that she was my only ally for miles around. She had long, dark black, waist-length hair that framed her roundish face and angular jaw. Her dark brown eyes, despite being hidden by equally dark plastic eyeglasses, pierced me—focused and penetrating—as if she could see through everything around her. She was rather short, but she had a physical presence that I found difficult to ignore. Her demeanor seemed fearless.

Deep Cavern