Pak! A pistol rang out again over the waves, and the crowd on the beach cried out in panic. The pistol fired again -- pak! -- and -- ping! -- the hull of the Castillos' boat rang as the bullet hit it. The police were shooting at them! But why? Didn't Castro say it was all right to leave? Isabel's eyes fell on Luis and his girlfriend, and she understood. They had been drafted into the police, and they weren't allowed to leave. They were deserters, and deserters were shot. The motor coughed to life, and the boat lurched into a wave, spraying Isabel with seawater. The villagers on the beach cheered for them, and Sr. Castillo revved the engine, leaving the charging policemen in their wake. Isabel braced herself between two of the benches, trying to catch her breath. It took her a moment to process it, but this was really happening. They were leaving Cuba, her village, her home -- everything she'd ever known -- behind. Isabel's father pitched across the roiling boat and grabbed Sr. Castillo by the shirt. "What are you playing at, letting them on board?" he demanded. "What if they follow us? What if they send a navy boat after us? You've put us all in danger!" Sr. Castillo batted Geraldo Fernandez's arms away. "We didn't ask you to come along!" "It's our gasoline!" Isabel's father yelled. They kept arguing, but the engine and the slap of the boat against the waves drowned their words out for Isabel. She wasn't paying any attention anyway. All she could think about was the ninety miles they still had to go, and the water pouring in from the gunshot hole in the side of the boat. Excerpted from Refugee by Alan Gratz All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
