The mother fought back bitter tears as she looked to her own infant son.

“¡Ponte a trabajar!” he commanded. *Get to work.*

“Please,” she stammered, yearning to go outside for a walk. The outdoors beckoned like a movie star, attractive and seeming to stare into your very eyes while you watched them, transfixed… but never to be truly yours. A fantasy. A daydream. She couldn’t go out there and enjoy the pleasant day… she couldn’t decide what she would do today, for that was not her choice to make… Her dreams were denied by *el bebé,* the cruel taskmaster. His was an iron collar around her neck, a suffocating grip like a farmer might use when he picks up and moves a chicken by squeezing its neck.

“¿Acaso tartamudeé?” *Did I stutter?* “Trabaja, perra, o acabaré contigo.” *Work, bitch, or I will end you.*

She bit back the bile in her throat and feigned a smile and returned to her prison of an office as *el bebé* returned to his rocky chair and gnawed on Mr. Silly Cup, watching Dora the Explorer. As her office door clicked shut, she dreamt of the wild plains of Africa, of an exit into adventure beyond with a talking monkey and a magical map… of an escape from her confinement, as all caged animals tend to do.