The next hour felt like panic because it was panic. A threat gathering amorphous, and I didn’t quite know from where. I just knew I was late. Struck me in my gut, irrational. I was late. Silvina would’ve expected me to receive this information much earlier, not five months later. Instead, Hillman had hijacked it. And where was Ronnie? Close by or not a part of this?

I packed the way someone does when they don’t care: dumping clothes and toiletries and any old random thing in my suitcase. Just shoving it all in and making it fit. Followed by an inventory of weapons, ammo, food, water, emergency supplies. Gathering what made sense to gather by the door. I could leave right away. Drive through the night. Be at the farm by midmorning or noon. I was manic by then, suffused, ecstatic, talking to myself. Perhaps in my frantic daydreams, too, I dared to imagine that this was the end of the nightmare. I would have the answers. Clever of Silvina to put them somewhere familiar to me. Considerate, not considerate.

In some other world, I do none of these things.

In some other world, I analyze the odds like I was taught to do. Calmly, with a coldness born of distance. That person turns their back on Hillman’s revelations. That person goes off into the wilderness anyway, knowing it’s the best move for their survival. Their sanity.

But I was stuck in this world.

[83]

If I could, I would’ve rigged this confession with traps and protocols. Things you have to get through to get through, if you know what I mean. Hack your way through a jungle on your way to Quito. Make it so you can’t see everything. Until it’s almost too late.

Are you here now? Can I count on you being here? That you made it through. That someone made it through.

Or will I always just be writing this to myself?

[84]

At some point, the rain lessening, the temperature plunging yet again, I picked up Hillman’s atlas. It was more detailed than my fold-out map, and I’d decided against any online searches for the best route. Any online activity, even from a phone I considered secure.

I flipped through to the right quadrant. Which is when I noticed the torn-out pages, by the ragged paper shreds left behind in the spiral binding. I checked the pages to either side, looked at the table of contents.

The missing page showed the river. Somewhere in the middle of that torn-out page lay my houseboat. I was willing to bet Hillman had marked the spot.

I just stared at the rip. Tried to control my traitor hands.

It didn’t have to mean anything. There were a lot of reasons it could’ve meant nothing. So few.