The cartel take me when I am 12 year old. They kill my mother and father in front of me. They lock me in room and say that I make them arts and crafts. I tell them no, and they beat me. They pour glue down my throat. They say, “You make papier-mâché arts and crafts. We want piñata to hit with stick and make candy fall out.”

I say no. I tell them they are stupid. I tell them papier-mâché is not even Spanish term. I tell them it is French term. They beat me more. They do this three year. Three year they beat me and tell me to make piñata, to do this papier-mâché arts and crafts.

One day, they bring little sister in. They hold the knife to her throat. They say, “You will make piñata.” They say, “You will do arts and crafts.” I look at little sister’s eyes. I say, “I will make piñata.”

Two year I tell them I work on piñata. Two year I am careful putting paper on glue, making this papier-mâché. Is two year, I tell them I am finished.

They unlock room. They walk into room. They look ahead for papier-mâché arts and crafts I make for them. They do not see a piñata. They do not see me. They look left. They do not see a piñata. They do not see me. They look right. They do not see a piñata. They do not see me.

They look up. Above them I whisper, “I make papier-mâchéte.”