More shouts, cries. I made my way down the long set of stairs to the hard earth and took off toward the cropland. Paco ran to meet me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me along through the crowd of families and children.

FrannyB staggered along, one arm around FrannyA’s waist as she half carried, half dragged her down the narrow path along the manioc gardens. Exhausted, she lurched a few more steps forward, then dropped to her knees; FrannyA’s limp form tumbling into the sharp grasses of the field. By the time I reached them, one of the men had picked her up and was running with her to the clinic, followed by the buzzing crowd.

FrannyB spoke to anyone who would listen. “She got so sick, so fast! I didn’t think we’d make it. I had nothing to give her . . .” She covered her mouth, didn’t recognize me. Did I look that different? “Lily,” she finally said, “have you seen For God’s Sake?”

“No.”

Wild-eyed, she turned to Doña Antonia, who hurried ahead toward the clinic carrying a bucket of water. “Forget about him,” she said, face set.

“Forget about him? What’s going on?”

“We sent Panchito to find him. We haven’t heard anything. What difference does it make? Is he here now to help us?”

I stood in the shadows of the clinic, filled with dread at the scene unfolding before me. Two small fans, motors whining, clipped at the dull hot air. After the batteries inside died, there would be no more.

Her face naked-looking without her spectacles, FrannyA lay on her back on a thin straw mat on the floor, her arms secured to her body with lengths of liana, her bare feet tied snugly to two stubby poles the men had pounded into the soft wood. After their task, they stood around looking awkward, arms looped loosely behind their backs.

“Get out of here,” FrannyB barked, sending a few young boys out for more water. “And bring clean cloth, as much as you can find. Go!”

FrannyA moaned, her head rolling back and forth on the meager pillow, spittle dribbling from the corners of her mouth. She struggled weakly at her ropes as she tried to lift her arms, turn from side to side, or bend her knees. Sweat greased her face and drenched her thin gray hair, soaking the drab cotton sheet she lay on. Doña Antonia busied herself loosening the cords while still keeping her immobile, all the while making small sounds of comfort, sounds I hadn’t known she was capable of.

Eyes swimming in reddened sockets, FrannyA turned to me, looking me up and down, my gaunt face, my big belly, my sack dress, and purple-stained skin. “You are going to have a bastard child. You are not married in the eyes of God. I’m dying, Lily, but I’m going to a beautiful place—”

“Shut up, A,” FrannyB said. “You’re not dying. We’re going to get this all cleared up.” Kneeling, she held her friend’s fine-boned hand with her ham-fisted one, gazing at her with so much love I had to look away. Doña Antonia handed me some folded-up sections of cloth, motioning to place them under the ties, which were already cutting into the thin skin of the sick missionary’s scrawny ankles.