Chapter 3 – The Stowaway
A Resurgence Chronicles Tale
The ten-year-old boy darted through the dusty commotion of the Bennett Compound, dodging buckets, boots, and bustling bodies as he ran. "I want to go with you, Papa!" he cried, skidding to a halt beside his father.
Frank Pyle, startled mid-stride, looked down at his youngest. Brown hair tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with excitement—Juanito was nothing if not persistent.
Frank knelt to his son’s level, setting the box he carried onto the ground with a thud. "What was that, Juanito?"
"I want to go with you," the boy repeated, breathless but determined. His hazel eyes searched his father’s blue ones, hoping to find the answer he wanted.
Frank’s expression softened. "I knew you would, son," he said gently. “But your mother and I talked it over. You’re too young for this safari. Besides—your mother would worry. And I need someone strong and dependable to take care of her while I’m away. Can you do that for me?”
Juanito's shoulders slumped, gaze falling to the dirt. “But I want to go,” he whispered, voice small.
Frank sighed, then straightened his posture, adopting the firmer tone of a father putting his foot down. “I’m sorry, but you can’t. That’s final.”
Seeing the disappointment settle over his son like a dust cloud, he added with a wink, “Still, you can help us get ready. See that truck over there? Why don’t you carry this box to your brothers?”
Juanito hesitated, then took the box with a reluctant grunt. “Okay,” he muttered, trudging across the compound. Frank gave him an encouraging pat on the back before turning to the next task on his checklist.
The truck, an old cargo hauler with peeling paint and a tarp-covered frame, loomed ahead like a metal beast waiting to be fed. Juanito squinted toward the cab—no sign of his brothers. The sun glared off the hood, already heating the compound’s hard-packed earth.
With effort, he hoisted the box onto the bed and clambered up after it. His well-worn leather boots, handmade by the compound’s cobbler, scuffed softly against the metal edge. Inside, shadows danced across stacked crates and battered storage trunks. The space smelled of dry wood, old oil, canvas, and dust—strange, earthy scents he associated with adventure.
Juanito wandered toward the front, weaving between boxes. He imagined what the convoy might look like crossing the jungle, like a caravan of heroes from one of the old stories. What if they found hidden treasure? Or ancient ruins? Or—what if they got lost?
A narrow gap between two crates caught his eye. He dropped to his knees and peered into the space. It formed a tunnel, just wide enough for someone small to crawl through. Curious, he wriggled in. The deeper he went, the darker it got, but Juanito’s slender build made the journey easier.
The passage was quiet—eerily so. No one shouted here. No boots stomped. Just the rustle of canvas above and the thudding of his own heart. The tunnel opened into a tight little alcove near the front of the truck bed, where beams of light filtered through the tied-down tarp. Dust motes danced in the glow like floating seeds.
Juanito’s eyes widened. It was perfect.
With a burst of excitement, he backed out and dropped down from the truck. If he could sneak in a few supplies—blankets, his pillow, snacks—this could be his hideaway. His secret mission. His escape.
He made his way toward the living quarters, head low, trying not to attract attention. In his family’s sleeping space, he stuffed his pillow and two thin blankets into a canvas sack. He slipped a roll, some dried meat, and a dented metal canteen from the communal stores—just enough, he reasoned, to get by without drawing notice.
Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the treetops and the compound slowed into evening routine, Juanito stashed his supplies behind the truck bed. When no one was looking, he climbed up, pushed his sack into the tunnel between crates, and wriggled back out, heart hammering. It was all ready. He even laid his boots beside his cot—ready to slip on before dawn.
That night, he lay in bed wide awake, heart pounding with the thrill of what he’d done. Tomorrow, while everyone was busy loading up and saying goodbyes, he would make his move.
The soft voices of his parents drifted from the other side of the curtain. His mama sounded worried. His papa reassured her. Juanito stared at the ceiling, guilt and excitement churning in his belly. It didn’t feel good, but it felt necessary.
Before the sun was up, he slipped from his blanket and laced up his boots, careful not to wake anyone. Outside, the compound was still blue with early light, quiet except for the cough of a starting engine and the clank of a closing hatch.
His papa stood beside the lead truck, clipboard in hand, checking boxes with a pen. He looked tired—but proud.
“You’re up early,” Frank said with a faint smile. “Come to say goodbye?”
Juanito nodded, forcing himself to meet his father’s eyes. “Be safe, Papa.”
“You too, son,” Frank replied, giving him a brief but solid hug. “Keep an eye on your mama.”
Juanito lingered as his father turned away, then quickly ducked behind a storage crate. The moment passed, and the bustle resumed. He moved like a shadow, slipping to the rear of the old cargo hauler, checking over his shoulder every few steps.
No one was watching.
He climbed up, slid through the flap in the tarp, and wriggled between the crates into his secret hiding place.
Inside the alcove, he arranged the blankets, tucked his pack behind him, and pulled the edge of the tarp tighter to block the light. The truck rocked slightly as someone loaded a box above. He froze, breath held—but no one came looking.
As the engine roared to life and the truck lurched forward, Juanito’s eyes widened in wonder. He was going. He was really going. The jungle awaited, and with it—his first great adventure.
He smiled, then curled up in the shadows, the hum of motion lulling him to sleep.
