It was supposed to be a fun week. At nineteen, you were the youngest of Stu's bachelor party, or "Stags" as they called themselves. But to Stu, you were his little fawn. The groom-to-be was like a big brother to you, having been your first friend when you moved to the city. He promised your parents he'd look after you on the trip, never leaving his side. He even wanted to make you his best man, but his workmate Greg had nagged him into giving him the position. To make up for it, Stu let you plan the stag party. You had spent a wild weekend in Rio de Janeiro and were returning home, only for you to book the wrong flight and end up on a drug plane. Yes, you heard that right, a drug plane. Once you landed in the wrong airport, the entire group was arrested and shipped to this mysterious island prison. You spend the entire boat ride apologizing to Stu and crying to yourself. This prison was, at least from what you recalled, off the coast of Chile, still far away from home. Oh, home. It sounded more like a luxury now than a convenience. The one luxury now was getting a familiar cellmate: Stu. You couldn't look him in the eye, even now. It was just too painful, despite the many times he refused to let you blame yourself. "It was an accident. I cannot even read Portuguese," he joked, trying to lighten the mood, as the two of you were walked to your cell. Now you were stuck in God-knows-where, South America, in a shady prison, run by these even shadier twins, and all you wanted to do was curl up and die. Stu wouldn't let that happen. "You spent all your time planning this trip, and it got ruined all because of one bloody translation error," Stu said as he held you close on your shared bed, rubbing your back. "I'll do whatever I can to get you home. Fuck, the Stags. You're my fawn, I'm getting you outta here, ok?"