"Alright, Martin. Let's hear that one more time."

Eight year old Martin sighed as he glanced away from the grand piano in the family's opulently appointed parlor. Golden spring sunshine streaming through the large bay window that occupied nearly an entire wall of the room, framed by plush velvet curtains. On the other side of the crystal clear glass, the lush green lawn and deep blue Carribean sea beyond seemed to beckon. The ticking of the metronome was almost hypnotic, and young Martin knew he would prefer any activity to another half-hour of piano practice. He could run through the grounds chasing the peacocks or his pet Havanese terrier, Chico. Perhaps he'd dare to take a quick jump in the fountain to cool off if the gardener, Luis, wasn't looking. Surely the maid would scold him as usual for messing up his neatly pressed shorts and crisp white shirt. But deep in his heart, he knew it would be worth it!

Maria Castillo smoothed her long pale pink silken skirt and gently placed a hand on her son's shoulder, pulling him back to reality. "Martin, did you hear me? One more time."

"Please, Mama, can't I practice later? After dinner? I promise I'll do extra good!" He gave her a sweet grin that he knew she would find irresistable.

Maria's expression was firm, but softened as she glanced outside toward the same beautiful day her son had seen through the window. Having grown up poor in the streets of Havana and relatively new to this wealthy lifestyle, she would afford her son more joys and freedom of childhood than some of the other stuffy mothers in their neighborhood. It really was a shame to keep a child cooped up on a beautiful day. Childhood was so short after all. "Oh, alright. Just this once. And stay out of trouble, understand?"

Martin's face spread into a toothy grin. "Thanks, Mama!" In a blur, he jumped from the piano bench and sprinted across the marble floor and out the French doors to the back garden.

Maria stifled a laugh and shook her head. There was so much joy and spirit in her young son, she prayed nothing would happen to take than from him.

"Did Martin con you into ending piano practice early again?"

Maria spun around to find her husband behind her, his broad grin matching their son's perfectly. "He's very convincing, Miguel. I wonder who he could take after?" She asked playfully, putting her arms around him.

Miguel Castillo kissed his wife lovingly and gently placed his hand on her stomach. "And how is our other little one today? Maybe it's time to tell Martin that he's going to be a big brother."

"Miguel, it's still so early… I think we should wait. Besides, I kind of like having our little secret." One more playful kiss was interrupted by thundering footsteps from the hall.

"Papa! Papa! You're home!"

Miguel scooped his son up in his arms and spun him around.

"Senor Castillo! Your suit!" The housekeeper, Antonia, followed behind, fussing over the floor and Miguel, both of which were now dirty thanks to a dripping wet Martin.

But Miguel simply smiled and ruffled his son's hair. "In the fountain again, huh, kiddo?"

Martin looked sheepishly at his father. "Well, just a little," he replied with a mischievous glimmer in his eye.

"Martin, what did I tell you?" Maria shook her head.

Miguel tossed Martin in the air making him giggle before setting him down. "Better get cleaned up before dinner. You show up to the table looking like this and Antonia will really yell at you!"

"And use the stairs off the kitchen. We certainly don't need muddy footprints on the carpet, young man!" Maria called after him.

When their son was out of earshot, Miguel kissed Maria once more and put his arm around her. He rubbed her back gently, as he often did when he was about to tell her something she didn't want to hear. "Enrique is coming over tonight."

Maria frowned and shoulders slumped. Her husband's younger brother was a student at the university. He had always looked down his nose at her because of her poverty-stricken childhood, they rarely saw eye to eye on anything, and Enrique was not shy about his feeling that his brother should have married a girl from high society. Still,since the death of their parents, Miguel felt obligated to look out for his younger sibling.

"I know, I know, but he's my baby brother."

"Emphasis on the 'baby,'" Maria quipped.

Candlelight flickered from silver candlesticks on the center of the long, mahogany dining table. Martin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his meal only half finished, noticing the way his mother seemed to look at his uncle Enrique. As usual, his uncle didn't seem to notice that he existed.

"It's getting louder on the streets, Miguel. Might be wise to cut our losses and head to Miami."

"Don't you think it's a bit soon to do something so drastic, Enrique?

Enrique seemed not to hear. "Change is in the air, it's going to leave people like us with nothing!"

"I'm not running like a coward!" Maria slammed her fork on the table with a loud clang and spoke up defiantly. "Change is necessary in this country, no one knows that more than I do! But what's happening now… it's not the way. You're twenty years old, Enrique, what do you know?"

Miguel carefully stirred his coffee and placed his hand gently over his wife's in an attempt to calm her. "Change is needed for the poor, yes, I agree. Enrique, Father left me in charge of the farms and the business, you think he'd want me to leave it all behind just like that?" He snapped his fingers for emphasis. "It's been a part of our family for generations, and perhaps someday it will be in Martin's hands as well." Miguel looked across the table and winked at his son who smiled back proudly.

Enrique turned briefly to his nephew and sneered at him before turning back to his brother. "Leave it to you to sympathize with a bunch of peasants! You think your concern for them will help you when Castro's goons come to take you to the firing squad? You think that isn't happening all around us already? People who speak out disappearing, people dying… it's not going to stop!"

Martin nervously wrung his hands under the table. His entire life had been one of privilege, his sheltered days filled with horseback riding lessons, private schooling, and socializing with the children in other elite Cuban families. Although he was vaguely aware of his mother's poor upbringing, and he had seen disheveled, shoeless people wandering the streets of Havana from the windows of his father's car, this was the first he had heard of any kind of unrest. Did people really want to take away his father's business? To kill him? It made his stomach turn a bit.

Maria's eyes seemed to blaze with fury. She glanced at her young son and saw his fearful expression. "I don't think this is the time to talk about such things, Enrique. It's getting late, perhaps you should go."

Enrique gave her the same disdainful sneer he had given Martin just moments before. He stared at his brother as though he expected Miguel to defend him, but he stood silently staring back, with an arm around his wife. "Alright then, have it your way. But mark my words, if you stay here and keep speaking your mind, they will make you regret it. Be careful, big brother." He pushed in his chair and the family could hear the heavy front door creak open then close with a loud slam.

"The nerve of that man. I can't believe you allow him to come in our home and speak to us that way! He behaves like a know-it-all child."

"Papa?" Martin spoke up. "What was Uncle Enrique talking about? Are we moving? Do people really want to kill you?"

Maria and Miguel exchanged a look as if to say "Now what?"

Miguel scooped Martin up in his arms. "Aw, you know Uncle Enrique. He just likes to hear himself talk. Don't you worry about a thing, my boy. You're safe right here with us. We won't let anything happen to our family." He reassuringly placed his other hand gently on Maria's stomach and she leaned on his shoulder.

Being safe in his father's arms reassured Martin a bit, but he still felt uneasy. What were all these changes happening that seemed to make everyone so nervous?

The large grandfather clock in the hall struck 11 as thunder crashed outside, but neither of those things were what woke Martin up on a stormy July night. Rather, it was the loud, angry voices echoing downstairs that startled him. He held his stuffed bear tighter and struggled to make out what they were saying. Was it his parents arguing? No, there was another voice speaking... a man. Enrique? No, this voice was distinctly different. The arguing grew louder and louder until he could plainly hear his mother crying. A flash of lightening illuminated the room. Shaking, he carefully stepped out of bed, pulled a bathrobe on over his pajamas and tiptoed into the hallway. Slowly he peeked around the corner near the grand staircase. From his vantage point, he could see two men in what looked like olive green military uniforms, their heads covered with matching hats. One had his father's hands secured behind his back and the other was attempting to keep his mother away. His mother was frantically trying to escape his grip, while his father tried to calm her. This scene seemed to play out in slow motion, with Martin barely able to process what was happening.

"Let him go! He's done nothing wrong!" His mother cried.

"Maria, please…" Miguel begged.

"People like you just don't know how to step aside and shut up!" one stranger yelled.

Martin spun around and sat on the floor, his back to the wall at the top of the stairs. He pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, closing his eyes tight. If he wished hard enough, maybe, just maybe, he would wake up from this nightmare. Thunder cracked in the distance once more, just before blood curdling screams rang out from downstairs, followed by a flash and a gunshot. In quick succession, another singular scream and one last gunshot. Then- deafening, sickening silence.

Martin did not move a muscle. Perhaps any moment his parents would come rushing up the stairs. His mother would hold him tight, and his father would assure him that the bad men had left. But they never came. Perhaps it was hours later when he finally gathered the courage to descend the stairs. Taking each step slowly and carefully, he froze when he reached the bottom. There, on the cold, white marble floor, lay the motionless bodies of his beloved parents. Had it not been for the crimson red blood spreading around them, one might have thought they were sleeping. Martin distinctly felt his heart stop. He wanted to scream, cry, throw himself on the floor- anything at all to keep this from being real. Instead, he stood frozen, his eight year old nine unable to process what lay in front of him.

Just then there was a rustling from the kitchen, and Martin followed his first instinct: to run. He pushed open the French doors to the garden and ran across the patio as the rain poured down. He slipped on a wet leaf and skidded on the concrete ground, scraping the length of his shin. Despite the pain, Martin wasted no time in getting to his feet and ran towards the shore.

Martin ran along the sand until he could run no more. Out of breath from running and from the harsh wind blowing against him, he felt overwhelmingly hopelessness and fearful. Where could he go? If he went home, would those people that killed his parents come looking him too? Nothing seemed safe anymore. Shivering and soaked from the rain that beat down on him, he took what shelter he could under a palm tree. Wrapping his robe tight around himself in a futile effort to stay warm, he let the tears fall from his eyes. The cold became unbearable as he shivered uncontrollably, and soon everything went dark.

"Mama? Papa?" Martin struggled to open his eyes as he called for his parents over and over. How mouth was dry and his throat was sore, but he was no longer shivery cold. Where was he? Had it all been a bad dream? Was he safe in his bed? Could he get up and run down he hall to his mother and father? His eyes began to focus. No, this was not home. His leg was bandaged and he was lying in a bed covered by stiff white sheets and a heavy, scratchy blanket. All around him were bright lights, strange smells, and stark white walls. He could vaguely make out the images of people across the room clad in all white, and heard bits and pieces of hushed conversation as rain tapped on a window nearby.

"They found him on the beach…"

"…Very high fever…"

"…just send him to an orphanage…"

"…look, he opened his eyes…"

"Little boy? Can you hear me?"

Martin blinked and focused. A nurse in a crisp white uniform, her raven hair neatly pinned away from her face, held a metal clipboard on which she tapped a pen. Her face was stern and unsmiling as she stared down at him.

"You're awake." It wasn't a question.

He nodded.

"What is your name?"

"It's - it's Martin."

She sighed with impatience. "Your full name, little boy."

He felt his heart race in fear "Martin- Martin Alejandro Castillo." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Where are your parents? Why were you out in the middle of the night?" Her voice had an accusatory tone to it.

Martin felt as thought the wind had been knocked out of him. The image of the blood pooling and contrasting with the white marble floor, surrounding the bodies of his lifeless mother and father flashed in his mind, and he squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to erase it.

The nurse shook her head and scribbled something on the clipboard. "A runaway, probably," she grumbled plainly, as if Martin wasn't in the room.

"No!" He protested, louder than he intended, through his tears. "My parents are… are…" he couldn't complete the sentence band began to sob.

The nurse was unsympathetic and pressed him further. "Do you have any family at all?"

Martin sniffled and wiped his eyes with the back of his arm. "Just my uncle, Enrique. My father's brother. He's at the university."

The nurse sighed once more and turned to her co-worker. "See what you can find."

The time that followed was quiet. Martin was left alone in his hospital bed for extended periods of time, with only his thoughts and fears for company. It must have been a day later when the nurse entered his room accompanied by his uncle. Enrique wore a grey suit and carried his hat in his hands.

"This him?" The nurse gestured towards Martin coldly, as though he were a stray dog.

Enrique nodded, staring intently at his nephew. "Yes. I'll take him with me. Thank you nurse."

The nurse turned and walked from the room without making eye contact with Martin. He couldn't help but assume she was happy to be rid of him.

Enrique set a change of clothes beside Martin. "Get dressed. We're leaving now." His words were quick and emotionless. No concern for his parents, no sympathy whatsoever. Quickly, Marin quietly did as he was told. He remained silent as his uncle lead him roughly by the hand through the sterile hospital corridors. The atmosphere seemed to match Enrique's demeanor- cold and unfeeling. In the street, Martin immediately recognized his father's car and his driver Mateo waiting at the curb. He held the car door open and gave Martin a sympathetic nod as he entered. Everything was so familiar- the sights and sounds of the city, the smell of the car, the smooth leather seats- and yet still felt so foreign.

As they traversed the city streets, watching the buildings fly by, Martin wondered what would happen now. He finally gathered the courage to speak.

"Uncle Enrique… are we- are we going home now?" His voice was quiet and shook slightly. Did he really want to go back there?

Enrique squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled sharply. "No."

Martin nodded and looked down at his hands. Enrique was his only family now, he supposed he should be grateful that he came for him. Surely life with his uncle would be better than an orphanage.

Orphan. It was the first time Martin realized that's what he truly was. He quickly wiped a tear from his eye.

"And if you think I want to sit here and watch you cry about your parents, you're in for an unhappy surprise, kid. You're lucky I don't leave you on the streets, so you'd better grow up fast," Enrique snapped. "Right now we're doing what your father should have done a long time ago, if he had been smart enough to ignore your mother and her foolish pride. We're getting the hell out of this disaster of a country." He grabbed a duffle bag from the floor and thrust it at Martin. "Here. I grabbed a few things for you."

Carefully, Martin unzipped the bag. Inside, there was not much more than a few changes of clothes and a framed photograph. Part of him was surprised his uncle would think to include such a thing, but another part was grateful. The glass was shattered, but Martin immediately recognized the family portrait which had been taken only months before. His eyes filled with tears as the images of his proud, gentle, smiling parents looked back at him. As for the joyful, carefree boy in that photo- Martin scarcely recognized him. It seemed he was long gone, his innocence murdered along with his parents on that stormy night, never to return.