“You want meat?”

“Maybe I won’t throw it up.”

In minutes he returned with two bowls of meat cut up into strips. He used a banana leaf to eat his, but I couldn’t even stomach the smell of that, so I ate with my hands from the ceramic bowl. It was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted; smoky and crisp and charred on the outside, barely pink on the inside. I felt much better afterward and headed up to the longhouse. It was past time to check on Charlotte and the baby macaws.

Just as I started up the hill, the sky—which had turned a murky green—opened up. A steady deluge transformed the earth under my feet into streaming mud that gushed past my ankles. Soaked to the skin, I charged up the steps of the longhouse, past several hunters sleeping off their sugarcane brandy in the slowly swaying hammocks, past Doña Antonia carving more meat at the fire. She didn’t raise her head to look at me.

My baby macaws nestled in their corn silk pillow in the storeroom. They squeaked when they saw me, flapping their little turquoise wings. Blue tufts fluffed off and floated in the heavy humid air as their beaks yawned open in a parody of hunger. I scrambled in my wet pockets to extract the handful of black aguaje seeds, their favorite. They ate every last kernel and clearly would have downed more if I had them. I tore a banana leaf from a heavy branch that grew near the window, filled it with rainwater, and dripped it into their mouths until they seemed to not want any more. That was when I noticed Charlotte’s leash lying on the floor, but no Charlotte. I examined the braided rope. The loop that had encircled her neck had been sliced open.

My hands trembled with rage. I gathered up the little birds—still begging for food in their sweetly pitiful way—grabbed the liana, and marched out to the main room of the longhouse. A few of the men had begun to stir, lured by the platter of the grilled meat.

Doña Antonia sat on a low stool, tending the meat with great attention. Breathless, I stood over her, dripping onto the thin plywood floor. “Where is she?”

She turned to me, wiped her greasy hands on her skirt. Steam sprung silver coils along her hairline, her thick braid a long, tight snake twisting to the floor.

I lay the birds next to my feet and thrust the liana leash under her nose. “Tell me where she is.”

Doña Antonia glanced down at the leash, then gave me a look I will never forget. A mix of pity, compassion, even the beginnings of a strangled affection. Finally she said, very gently, “Oh no, Lily. Charlotte is right here.” She gestured at the platter of meat by her side, then at the big iron pot where we cooked the food for the dogs.

“What have you done?”

She picked at a back molar with a stubby forefinger, gazing out into the wall of gray water falling just yards away. “Do you know, Lily, that twin baby girls were born here last night?”