Nothing like that worked here.

I had to pay attention; I had to adapt; I had to stay.

I began walking again, with every step guiltily recalling Omar’s admonishment to stay where I was. Though staying put freaked me out even more, I made myself stop next to a lupuna tree, its voluminous roots soaring skyward. I thought of that Ayacheran rule of the jungle: when you’re lost, they only look for you for two days.

I screamed Omar’s name once, twice.

The looming green tunnel submerged my voice. From what seemed a great distance, as in a dream, I heard my name. Faintly, in all the wildness and from so far away. Lily . . . It was eerie; was I imagining it? Was it Omar? A muted gunshot, and another, dull pops, the muffled clattering of hooves.

Under my sodden sneakers, the earth seemed to buzz. Omar called my name; clearly now. I called out to him as the men’s shouts and the yips of the dogs grew louder and louder. Now the ground shook with the drumming of hooves; the peccaries were coming toward me. Screams from the men, shouts from Omar. Unintelligible.

Again, a paralysis stilled my limbs, but there were only moments to think. I had to move, now. I scrambled around the base of the enormous tree, listening. The hoofbeats rumbled louder and louder—how many were there, dozens? From what direction? Where were the dogs? The men? I had to hide—where?—in seconds the peccaries would crush me to death. I ducked down in the hollow of a curved root, covered my head, spoke to my baby, said, I will protect you, sweet thing, little thing, helpless thing.

Screaming bloody murder, dozens of black pigs roared by on either side of the tree, flattening everything, fury or fear or both sending them plummeting into the jungle beyond. In seconds, three dogs bulleted by, mouths frothing with rage. A brief lull, then Omar and Franz and the other men hurtled by, all of them yelling so loudly at each other and the dogs that they didn’t hear my shouts.

I ran toward the sounds of their voices, the yelps of the dogs. In minutes I realized where we were headed: back to the river we’d just crossed on the sapling bridge. The dogs—out of control—were instinctively rounding the game and trying to herd them back to where they knew we had left the boats.

At the bank of the river, two dogs cornered half a dozen eighty-pound pigs, nipping at them and jumping back, nipping and jumping back. The pigs squealed, edging toward the water but never touching it, as if they knew what awaited them there. Franz and Omar and the other men scrambled a dozen feet up into some strangler fig branches that overhung the bank, firing. I called out Omar’s name and he turned to me with a look I’ll never forget: surprise, fury, terror.

“Get up in that tree, Lily!” He gestured at the one closest to me.