The boy didn’t display any of the jerky motions I’d seen in Teresa as she left the plaza, and so I assumed him to be one of the cultists—a participant, rather than a prisoner. I frowned, puzzled, as four of the adults around him took hold of his wrists and ankles and hoisted him into the air, spread-eagled. Was this some sort of initiation rite? Were they going to ritually wash him clean before accepting him into the cult?