“Oh, B,” FrannyA said. “You know and I know. You can’t do this thing . . .”

A few young boys entered the hut, eyes downcast, hushed by the thin veil that hung between life and death. They carried tin pails of water and armfuls of cotton cloth and burlap scraps, all ironed to board-like stiffness. Anna knelt at FrannyA’s head, cooling her forehead with a damp cloth.

FrannyB spread out one of the lengths of cotton next to FrannyA’s tortured body. When she knew FrannyA couldn’t see her face, she let her own terror show; the skin ashen, taut over her sharp chin and cheekbones. Out of a lumpy canvas bag, she removed and arranged on the cloth: a slender silver surgical-looking knife, a small pair of scissors, tweezers, a sewing needle, a bundle of waxy-looking black string, and a label-less bottle of pills. Water boiled in a pot on a brick stove nearby. She lay the sharp ends of the tools in the hot water, then held three white pills and a brimming tin cup of cool water to FrannyA’s lips.

“Why are you bothering with me?” FrannyA said, turning her head away.

“Take the fucking pills.”

FrannyA shut her eyes, a wave of pain rolling across her features, her face whitening. “If it will make you happy, my dear.” She opened her eyes, focusing first on the clipping fans, then on all the faces staring down. “But you know we’ve failed, don’t you? You know we haven’t made one bit of difference—”

FrannyB pushed a pill in her mouth, spilling water down A’s pointed chin; she gulped it all back, coughing, blinking, then opened her mouth like a little bird and accepted the rest, bony throat bulging. FrannyB exhaled heavily before pushing herself to her knees to free a hip flask from the pocket of her camo pants. She unscrewed the top, held the flask to FrannyA’s mouth, and tipped it.

“If you waste a drop of this, I’ll kill you myself.”

But the missionary, chastened, eyes never leaving FrannyB’s, was now accepting any and all liquids.

FrannyB turned to me. “Go find Beya. Now.”

Holding my belly, I marched off to the manioc fields, to the cow barn, to the huts where the lepers lived. Machetes strapped to abbreviated limbs, the group of four adults worked the fields in the oppressive sun.

“Have you seen Beya?” Faces obscured by straw hats, a couple of them looked back at me. They shook their heads and returned to their work.

Panting and sweating, I made my way to the far perimeter of the fields, to the mouth of the Anaconda Path. In the trees above, six king vultures peered out from under orange wattles with white-ringed, bottomless black eyes. All patience, all waiting. As long as death existed, so would they.

Under the vultures’ dull, hungry glare, I planted my tapir-clad feet wide. Cradling my belly with both hands, I shut my eyes, all energy focused on silencing my noisy mind—full of the usual deafening chatter: fear, worry, doubt, longings—until, for a few precious moments: silence, as after a heavy snowfall. In my mind, I heard myself say in Spanish: