Los Cuatro
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 16
It was shortly after sunrise, and the house was buzzing with a quiet energy that felt a little like the morning of a big test—only none of us had studied, and there weren’t any right answers anyway. Still, there was something grounding about the routine: coffee brewed, cereal poured, Luz humming off-key in the kitchen.
Marisol pulled us into a little huddle near the front door before we left—me, her, Isa, and Luz in a tight circle like we were about to walk out onto a field instead of into a national interview.
“Anyone else nervous?” Isa asked, eyes wide, voice a little higher than usual.
“Terrified,” I admitted.
“Same,” Luz whispered.
Marisol exhaled and nodded. “Yeah. But come on. After everything we survived in Mexico?” She looked at each of us. “This is child’s play.”
That got a few nods. Even a small smile from Isa. We put our hands together in the middle like we were a team—which, I guess, we were—and then broke the huddle with a quiet but firm, “Let’s do this.”
The parents were waiting, already dressed and ready to go. Ellie beamed at us as we walked out; Beto gave me a short nod that might’ve actually meant something close to approval. Alicia—Isa’s mom—looked like she was holding back tears.
We drove in two separate cars to the venue, a quiet office building that didn’t look like much from the outside. That was the point. Dana’s team had been meticulous—non-disclosure agreements for everyone involved, unmarked vans, nondescript entrance. There were even two security guards near the front. No reporters. No camera flashes. Just peace and quiet.
Inside, it felt almost like stepping into another world—soft lighting, fresh coffee, a hush of focused professionalism. We were ushered into a green room with mirrors and racks of wardrobe options we didn’t need, since we’d brought our own. I’d never worn a full suit and tie in South Texas heat before, and I was already regretting it, but Luz gave me this tiny approving look that made it worth it.
The girls were swept away one by one to hair and makeup. I sat back, sipping water, trying to settle my nerves.
Then someone tapped my shoulder. “Brendan? The stylist would like a word with you.”
“I—what?”
Luz, returning with softly curled hair and subtle makeup, stifled a laugh. “Go. Trust me. You’ve got desert beard memory. They’ll want to do something with your face.”
“Fine,” I grumbled, standing. “But if they try foundation, I’m walking.”
“They will,” she said, grinning. “Just go with it.”
By the time we were all done, we looked like the polished, sanitized version of ourselves. Dresses and heels for the girls, professional lighting-perfect hair. I glanced at us all in the mirror and barely recognized the group.
But I knew what we’d say. And I knew we were ready.
One of the producers peeked in. “We’re ready for you.”
And just like that, it was time.
The lights were warm but not blinding, and the set was quiet in a reverent sort of way. We were seated in a soft curve—Dana in the middle, the four of us flanking her. Luz sat to my left, her fingers brushing against mine, steadying. Isa was directly across from her, already sitting tall and smiling. Marisol, furthest on the end, looked like she’d been born for this moment—poised, calm, her hands neatly folded in her lap.
Dana Calloway, with her smooth voice and steady gaze, welcomed viewers with a quick intro.
“Tonight, we’re sitting down with four people whose story has captured national attention. They were kidnapped in Texas, held in Mexico, and survived together. What you’ll hear tonight is their story—in their words.”
Then she turned to us with a kind, but direct smile. “Thank you all for being here.”
We murmured our thanks in return. Dana opened gently, walking us back to the beginning.
“Marisol, Isa—you two are cousins. Luz, you’re Marisol’s younger sister. Brendan, you were the newcomer in the group. But it’s clear you all formed a bond. Can you tell me when that happened? When it started to feel like the four of you were in this together?”
Isa smiled first. “I think it was the second or third day. We realized no one was coming anytime soon, and if we were going to survive—physically and emotionally—we needed to lean on each other.”
Marisol nodded. “We divided responsibilities early. Who watched for guards. Who tried to keep track of days. Who kept morale up. Sometimes, it was unspoken—we just slid into some roles naturally. It was teamwork.”
Dana turned slightly. “Luz, I understand you were the quiet one of the group. But I’m told you kept spirits high in your own way. Do you remember a moment when you felt your role start to matter?”
Luz hesitated. Her voice was soft but steady. “I think ... it was when I drew with a rock on the wall. Just to pass time. The others noticed and started asking me to draw things. It gave us ... something human.”
Dana smiled at her with what looked like genuine admiration. “You created art in a prison. That says something about hope, doesn’t it?”
Luz nodded. “We needed beauty. Even in an ugly place.”
Dana let that linger, then turned toward me. “Brendan. There’s one moment that’s been talked about a lot. You were taken away from the group, put in a van, and told you’d be freed. But you ran. You jumped out of the van and ran back toward the house to help the others escape. Why?”
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “I don’t know if there was a plan at that point. We were still trying to come up with one. But I knew one thing—if I left, they might never get out. And I couldn’t live with that. I wasn’t going to let them go through it alone.”
Dana leaned forward slightly. “You were giving up your own chance at freedom.”
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “But I was getting them back.”
I felt Luz’s pinky wrap gently around mine. That was all the comment she needed to make.
Later in the interview, Dana pivoted to some lighter ground. “So—Isa. I’ve been told you were the group’s official comic relief?”
Isa perked up. “Oh, absolutely. You have to laugh or you’ll cry, right?”
“Do you remember any particular moments that brought humor to the situation?”
Isa grinned. “Brendan tried to kill a cockroach with his shoe one night and ended up screaming louder than the rest of us. That was a bonding moment.”
Everyone—even Dana—burst out laughing.
“I did not scream,” I muttered. “That was an involuntary vocalization.”
Marisol smirked. “He screamed.”
Luz, deadpan: “It echoed.”
The laughter lingered, easing the weight of the heavier moments.
Toward the end, Dana brought us back to the bond we’d formed.
“What do you think the four of you will take away from this experience, going forward?”
Marisol was the first to answer. “That we’re capable of more than we thought. And that human connection—real, loyal, raw—is everything.”
Luz said softly, “We’re family now. Not just because we survived, but because we saw the worst of each other ... and loved each other anyway.”
Isa nodded. “And I’ve learned that resilience isn’t about never falling apart. It’s about helping each other stand back up.”
Dana turned to me.
I took a breath. “I’ll never stop being grateful that I ended up with them. And I hope that whatever people think of our story, they see that it’s not about one person. It’s about what we were together.”
Dana looked into the camera. “Thank you all. For your honesty, your strength ... and your courage.”
Off-camera, after the mics were off and the lights dimmed, she shook each of our hands.
“You gave me something real,” she said warmly. “That’s all I ever want from an interview. Best of luck to all of you.”
“Thank you,” Marisol said, and Isa hugged her, catching her off guard.
We filed out together, high on adrenaline and relief.
“That ... wasn’t awful,” Marisol admitted.
Isa was beaming. “I think I could do this for a living.”
“I actually liked it,” Luz said, almost surprised.
I smiled, sliding my hand into Luz’s as we stepped out into the humid late afternoon air. We all had the feeling you get after climbing something steep—worn out, a little breathless, but proud of the view. The interview had gone better than any of us expected. Dana had been true to her word—respectful, insightful, and never digging for spectacle.
We had shared the worst days of our lives. And today, we had shared something else—something different, something new. Still, I could tell we were all carrying some of that bottled-up tension in our shoulders, needing to release it.
So, I made the offer.
“Dinner’s on me,” I said, glancing around at all of them. “All of you. Pick a place. Let me say thank you. For everything you’ve done for me.”
They protested, of course.
“Brendan, you don’t have to—” I heard from several different mouths.
“Exactly why I want to,” I said. “I mean it. A real meal. Out. Together.”
Carmen smiled. Ellie gave me a warm pat on the arm. Beto didn’t argue, but his eyebrows arched in that subtle way that said we’ll see. I caught it. I always caught it with him.
The biggest question was whether we’d be able to eat in peace. The first press conference had cooled things off some—we weren’t dodging reporters every time we opened a door—but there was still curiosity in the air, the kind that clings to your skin when people think they know your story. And no one knew about the Dana interview yet, which helped.
“We can’t hide forever,” Marisol said. “If we wait for total privacy, we’ll never go anywhere.”
“She’s right,” Luz added, quietly but firmly.
So, I made some calls. I found a quiet, family-owned Mexican restaurant in a low-traffic part of town that Luz remembered liking. I called the manager directly, used a generic name—”Thomas”—and explained our situation. Asked for discretion. He said he understood, and he’d take care of us.
He did.
The dining room was tucked behind a curtain near the back, the lighting soft and amber-toned. We had a long table set for nine. The chairs didn’t match, but the salsa was fresh, and the tortillas were warm and homemade. Carmen talked with the owner in rapid Spanish, and whatever she said made him smile.
We ordered everything—from enchiladas to carnitas to mole that nearly made me cry. The mood lifted. Isa told stories from middle school that made everyone laugh, and even Beto cracked a grin when I told him about how I’d mistaken chili powder for cinnamon in a recipe I’d tried once back home.
At one point, I looked down the table. Luz was laughing so hard she had to lean against Marisol. Ellie and Carmen were swapping childhood stories. Isa was mimicking something from the interview, and even Beto had relaxed into his chair. It hit me then—this wasn’t just a dinner. This was a moment. One of those rare ones you wish you could bottle.
I was glad I’d pushed for it. But it seems like peace never sticks around for long.
I didn’t notice the guy at first—mid-thirties, sitting near the door, glancing over just a little too often. The kind of attention you can feel in your ribs. He pretended to scroll on his phone, then held it up for a “selfie” that wasn’t.
The flash gave him away.
Isa saw it too. “Uh-oh,” she said under her breath.
We finished quickly. Paid the bill, thanked the staff. But by the time we stepped out into the parking lot, two cars had rolled up, and two people with camera bags and anxious eyes stood near the curb. Not close. Not aggressive. But there.
We kept walking. Didn’t run. Didn’t engage. Carmen moved between Luz and Isa like a silent guard, and I stayed close to Marisol and Ellie. No one said a word until we were all inside our cars, doors shut, engines rumbling.
I exhaled.
No one followed us. No photos taken in our faces. No microphones jammed through open windows.
But it was a reminder. It wasn’t over. Not yet. Even with the best intentions, the world had its own way of showing up at your door, camera in hand.
Still, I didn’t regret it. Not for a second. That dinner had been worth the risk.
The house felt quieter than usual the next morning—too quiet, like the air itself had shifted. We weren’t rushing to get ready for another interview or staying out of sight from the press. The pressure had eased, but in its place was a strange kind of heaviness I hadn’t expected.
Isa and her parents were heading back to San Antonio. Back to their regular lives. I think consciously, each of us was pretending the day wouldn’t come. But underneath, we knew it was inevitable.
It wasn’t goodbye, not really—we’d be seeing her again in a few days when we flew to Utah. Still, it felt like the end of something. The first real separation since ... everything.
We’d been together every day since we’d escaped, since we clawed our way out of the impossible. We’d become our own weird little family, stitched together by trauma and survival and whatever strange kind of love had grown out of that. And now one of us was leaving.
Isa was trying to keep things light as she packed her overnight bag, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. I caught her glancing at each of us when she thought we weren’t looking.
“Hey, Brendan,” she said, holding out her phone, “download WhatsApp. Right now.”
“I’ve never used it.”
“Exactly. Time to evolve.” She grinned. “We’re making a group chat. Just us four.”
Luz already had her phone out, thumbs flying.
“This group is gonna be my lifeline,” Isa said, more seriously this time. “I mean it.”
Marisol handed me her phone to help me set it up. Within two minutes, Los Cuatro was born—just a basic thread, no emojis yet, no memes. Just names. But somehow, it felt important.
We walked Isa and her parents out to their car. The sun was already high, blazing against the driveway. Her dad, Rick, gave me a firm handshake, looking me in the eye the way dads do when they’re still working you out. Alicia hugged me tightly, then held me at arm’s length.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “For the haircut. For everything.”
She smiled and gave my cheek a quick pat. “Take care of them.”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.