I promised myself I would not give birth in this place.

By the light of a bonfire, a few of the men helped me unhook the pig’s hooves that had been lashed to its carrying pole. We laid it on its back; its four legs fell open, exposing an ash-colored abdomen. Determined to gut and skin it myself, I forced myself to concentrate on the steps I’d learned by watching the others: come down hard and swift with my machete so the head is removed from the body in one stroke. Hold the point of my switchblade just so between skin, fat, and muscle. Get help to gather the viscera, cut it free, picturing the dogs eating their well-earned meals. I remember the moment my perception went from gore and sadness for a life taken to food; in a way it was like holding the newborn—it was a revelation, a new understanding of life and death that stayed with me forever.

I brought a few cuts of meat to Doña Antonia, who nodded approvingly; big love from her. She’d been right about everything.

Two weeks later, in late September, it was time for Omar to leave again. That morning, I sat down on a bench near our oven to recover from my sense of dread at his departure. Catching a glimpse of my reflection in the big tin pot we used to boil cassava, I didn’t recognize myself. Except for my huge belly, the rest of me was thin, my face gaunt, hair lank. I’d been losing weight, not gaining it; dismissing the whispered comments of the women: she’s sick, something’s wrong with her. I ignored them—as well as the persistent painful itch near my shoulder blade—and listened only to Anna, who prepared special herbs for my appetite that seemed to work pretty well. She and Claudia and the new baby seemed healthy, so I took everything she gave me. I made my way back upstairs.

“Come on, Lily,” Omar said softly, setting a piece of tapir skin on the floor in front of me. We were both sluggish that morning, reluctant to move, sick of saying goodbye. “Stand on this. You can’t go around barefoot.” My sneakers were being held together with rubber strips cut from the supply bags.

I took a wide stance. He nicked into the leather with his short-handled knife the outlines of the soles of my feet, placing a gentle hand around my calves one at a time.

“I’ll punch the holes, and you’ll sew these sandals, so I can see my wife wearing something new when I get home.”

I peered over my big belly at the muscles in his shoulders working as he measured. “What about your assignment?” I asked, unable to resist running my hands through his shining black hair.

“About my love for you? I thought you’d forget,” he said with a grin, peering up at me. Crossing our hut, he shyly pulled a piece of paper wedged between Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility.