“What does that have to do with me?” I gaped in horror now at the grilled strips of meat that I had so enjoyed barely an hour ago. At the velvety pink pig ears sizzling and spitting in a shallow pan of fat.

“What does that have to do with you, Miss America?” The compassionate look was gone, replaced by the usual ornery, impatient one. “It means,” she said, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together as if they held some sort of currency, “there are two more hungry mouths in this village, okay? Two more empty bellies to fill every day. Every day. Now, do you think I make some magic to get the food, the meat?”

“You killed my pig!”

The men looked up from their seats around the fire, clearly enjoying the show.

“It is not your pig. It’s everyone’s pig.” She turned and stooped, flipping the meat on the hot coals.

I went to slap her, but she whipped around like she had eyes in the back of her head and caught my wrist midair. I let out a whimper. The men stiffened, exchanged glances, weighed the cost of getting involved, and kept eating.

“You didn’t lock the gate. All the chickens escaped. Are you trying to call the jaguar down to eat us all?”

I gasped as I flashed on the chicken rolling around in the jaws of the wolf spider. All those chickens to be devoured by the jungle’s countless ravenous open mouths. My fault.

“I give you one job—one single job—and you’re too good to do it! Too good!” She spat with rage, goiter bobbing.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out.

She drew me closer and held me fast; her meaty breath hot on my face, her sunbaked skin the color of clay, her eyes searing into me. “Does sorry fill my belly? Twenty-five chickens into the jungle, hunted down by eagles, or jaguar, or anaconda, or wolf spider, you think that is nice for them? You think that’s a happy way to die?”

I shook my head.

“Look around. You think maybe somebody here wanted to eat the chickens? These men here, their wives and children?”

I nodded, my arm stinging in her grip.

“Now—no eggs for two weeks, until For God’s Sake comes back. No, four! He has to go get them and bring them back.” She threw my wrist back at me; I clutched it. “And who has to pay for the new chickens? Your man has to pay. You cannot pay. You’re a useless girl.” She jabbed her finger up in the air toward my face.

“That’s not true,” I said. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do. All the washing and ironing, gutting the fish, and—”

“You don’t clean game! The women clean game, but you are too high-and-mighty—”

“I don’t know how to do that. No one’s ever shown me—”

“You got my best son, woman. The best of the three. You need to be worthy of him.”