The coop was a mess of feathers and blood. The dog had savaged every bird and eaten most of its kill. All that remained of the ten birds were feet and severed heads, mangled wings and entrails.
In the nesting-box shed, we were hidden from the guard's view. I scanned around. Two other guards were making their way down the hill, but they veered to the cells on another matter. I turned and leaned my back away from our solitary sentry and whispered to Jorge to stand in the shed doorway. Realising in an instant what I meant, he obliged.
Some flies had come to join us.
I ripped feathers from some chicken skin and shoved it in my mouth, scarcely chewing the raw, blubbery, squelchy mass before swallowing it down. The entrails were easier to chew, to bite into, but the desire to do so was slim.
