“If you can shoot, I’ll bring you next time. That’ll cure you of ever wanting to go again.” He sighed and glanced at the heavy sky that still held the rain in check. “So tell me, what’s my next assignment?”

“Tell me why you love me. This one is due as soon as possible.”

He gave me a wry smile but kissed me full on the mouth in front of all the men and women before he turned to the boats. We both watched each other as long as we could—me from shore, him from his boat—before the jungle swallowed him up.

Before a rapt audience of wide-eyed children who sat in a semicircle around me in the main room of the longhouse, I fed two scraps of a burlap sack under the oscillating needle of the sewing machine, foot working the treadle hard. Sweat dripped into my eyes as the incessant mosquitos buzzed at my ears. Slap and sew, slap and sew, slap and sew. Dark purple iodine stains blotched my legs, arms, neck, and face like birthmarks.

I finished joining the two pieces and offered the now towel-long remnant to the children; they snatched it out of my hands and—one holding each end—twirled in a circle as if to test the strength of the stitching. They’d collected a pile of things for me to sew together: torn dresses and shirts, ripped dolls, even palm fronds. I welcomed all requests, thrilled to be useful.

Bent over with the strain, a line of half a dozen women dragged a trail of fine wire mesh behind them up the hill: the fish gate. So as not to tear it any further, they carried it all the way up the stairs and unfurled it in front of me, Paco bringing up the tattered ends. There were enormous rips in every ten-foot section. The women had been sewing it by hand when they could, but keeping up with the repairs had become impossible. We’d been going out there with no protection at all. For God’s Sake had slipped me some nylon thread, but I had no idea if the hundred-year-old machine would hold up.

In the middle of a long seam, the machine screeched to a halt, its gears grinding together, desperate to be oiled. Marietta, a sweet but somber prepubescent twelve-year-old who was fascinated by the machine and who sat on a stool next to me, trying to learn every step, nearly burst into tears when it stopped. The line of villagers with torn clothing looked at me expectantly as the women holding the fish net sighed and looked away, well acquainted with the lack of supplies in Ayachero, as well as the way humidity destroyed the innards of machinery.

“I think some oil or grease would get this thing going again,” I said to Marietta, who disappeared into the storeroom, sprinting back with a short length of bamboo tube filled with cooking oil and sealed with rubber on both ends.

Marietta worked the treadle and I worked to spread out the netting, while Paco helped to feed the material under the needle and gather it up once a panel was finished. I was relieved and surprised every time the thick, old iron needle neither broke nor tore the netting as it pulled the nylon thread smoothly through the mesh. Soon I left Marietta to take over the machine—never saw her so excited—to help Paco fold and stack the finished sections. I couldn’t remember having a more joyous day in Ayachero.