On the Beast ride over here, I watched him hand polish each medal himself, and currently, they’re blinding me.

The brightness bounces off the mirrored doors of the room we’ve all been waiting to enter. Both panes of glass are floor to ceiling, and as wide as they are tall, meaning it’s more than difficult to hide from my reflection.

I can’t bear to look at myself, knowing I’ll see a sunburnt teen, dressed in an officer’s State Guard costume, who fits right in with the bad guys. Perfectly assimilated into their ranks.

It’s like the owner of this place wants his guests to take a long, hard look at themselves before they enter and face him. Just what are you made of? I imagine the glass asking.

Avoiding the question, I turn my attention instead to Director Wix, who gazes up with a contemptuous snarl at the four enormous satin-gold chandeliers that hang from the vaulted ceiling. The two-hundred-plus crystals sway from a strong draft of air that blows up from platinum-plated vents along the floors.

The entire palace is as cold as an ice fortress. The goosebumps that dot my arms and legs feel like a luxury of their own, each bump as extravagant as diamond cufflinks, when just outside these gilded walls is a sweltering desert.

Director Wix teeters over to Roth, making sure every clack of her six-inch heels on the marble floor can be heard. “The lieutenant should not make you wait like this,” she hisses like a house cat about to strike. “It’s intolerable. These southerners should take care to show more respect.”

Roth moves for the first time since we made our grand entrance approximately one hour ago, curling his vampire-pale fingers around the armrest of his high-back barrel chair. He seems to be in some manner of hibernation, storing his energy. For what?

I haven’t settled on whether he’s still in recovery mode from his poisoning, or if he’s simply a human rock, monolithic and steady, knowing he’ll outlast any coming storm.

“Compose yourself,” Roth says placidly, staring straight forward at his image in the glass. What are you made of? “Our dealings here will be brief.”

Dealings. Is he here to make a deal with the Salazars?

The true purpose of my little field trip out of confinement hits me like a Guard’s blow to the kidneys.

Is Roth going to trade me?

Sell me?

Leave me?

It was common hearsay in Canada that America’s Family Planning Divisions shipped off their illegal second-born children to their southern neighbor to become laborers, servants, or even playthings for the wealthy. The rumors were so universal they became accepted fact.

Is Governor planning to abandon me here?

For one harrowing instant, my most basic instincts of self-preservation kick in, nearly driving me to my knees to beg Governor to please keep me.

I squash the impulse like the scorpions that invade my nightly sleeping quarters.

The thought was only a flash of desperation, a moment of weakness, but I hate myself for it. My hearty dinner of filet mignon jerky shoots up my throat, and I have no other choice but to swallow my humiliation.

I have to get out of here.

Before I can reassess my plan of action, a woman wearing a form-fitting dress and a face full of makeup appears at Governor’s side. She tosses her long ponytail away from her bare, goose-bumped shoulder, not spilling a drop from the etched wine glasses she offers us on a silver tray.

When she bends to present us with the drinks, she speaks in lively Spanish, but her words are immediately translated into English by a cordial electronic voice. “Would you care for a glass of water?”

What I mistook at first for a gold necklace at her collarbone is in fact a translator device. I’ve seen them before in Vancouver, but none so stylish. The tech is imbedded seamlessly, a whole generation above what we used back home.

It’s not just any water that’s being offered; we’re being granted a taste of the Salazar cartel’s famed product. Allegedly, the best water in the world.

The Salazars control virtually the entire water supply in central and northern Mexico. No man, woman, or child gets a drop without going through them, not even if it falls from the sky.

I try not to think about the violence behind the clear liquid in these glasses.

Governor gives a hand signal, and one of his Guards, the taste tester, drinks the water first. When the soldier doesn’t drop dead, Roth motions for the woman to bring him the tray. He picks up a glass and drains its contents in three large gulps.

“There really is something in the water down here, I’ll give them that,” Roth says. He taps the edge of the glass, producing a musical ring with a slight echo. Real crystal.

Governor takes the glass meant for Director Wix, hands me the other, and clinks them together in a toast before guzzling down his second helping.

Wix fails to hide her disappointment at the snub.

The pony-tailed woman slides open a compartment at the bottom of the silver tray, revealing more translator devices. She passes one to each of us with an encouraging smile.

“All guests are required to wear the necklace at all times,” she informs us.

Governor glares at the “necklace” as if he has the choice to refuse. I quickly work out that the translator ensures everything anyone says on the property can be understood and most likely recorded. No secrets, nothing lost in translation.

Another form of the Salazars’ security to go along with the gunmen and surveillance cameras I know must be clocking our every move.

“Let me help you,” the woman says, gliding the ornamental chain over Roth’s wide chest. He does not refuse her charms, and as soon as the translator snaps closed around his neck, the rest of his men follow his example.

Roth has his reasons to acquiesce, I guess.

He wants something. Shelter? Manpower? A new job? I haven’t figured out exactly what yet.

Just after I clasp on my own gold necklace, the mirrored doors push open, letting in a man who has about a decade on me, and a good twenty pounds. In his flashy bronze tracksuit, our host gives the impression of a hefty walking statue. He moves as slow as one, too, a tactic that clearly riles Governor.

A low grumble vibrates from Roth’s throat, and what would normally only be heard within intimate range is picked up by the translator and broadcast for the room. In his own power move, Roth stays seated in his high-back chair, making our host come to him.

“Lieutenant Salazar,” Governor finally speaks, his words parroted back to him in a brassy Spanish. His thin lips disappear into a hard line, like the notion of him speaking the foreign language makes his stomach turn.

The lieutenant halts in front of us, his fists full of rings hanging stiff at his sides. No handshake hello, then.

“Governor Roth,” the lieutenant says, smirking down at Governor, flaunting his four gold incisors. “Or should I address you as Mr. Roth now?”

Director Wix clicks her tongue sharply, no translation necessary. But Governor lets crack a smile, which somehow makes him all the more threatening. The leather of his boots stretches when he rises and marches the three odd steps it takes to stand toe-to-toe with the lieutenant.

A number of the Guard detach from the lineup to shield his left and right, hands on their loaded holsters. I was bewildered that the State Guard were allowed to maintain possession of their guns, but I suppose that’s what makes the lieutenant all the more threatening. He knows he has the real power here.