I flashed on Angelina, the woman who’d walked naked into the jungle at night. In my mind I watched its monstrous green arms close around her tender flesh.

“I’m sorry, Lily. God loves you,” the missionary said without conviction.

The air thickened and stilled with a new presence. Beya stood in the doorway, soaked through her dun-colored dress, her long gray braid heavy and wet over one shoulder. Steam rose from her body.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“She came to my camp,” Beya said, nodding to FrannyB. “She told me about you.”

I closed my eyes, wishing everything and everyone away. “Why is everybody making such a big deal out of this?”

Omar pulled a stool next to our bed. “Let her look at you. She won’t even touch you.”

Beya took a step into the hut. Rainwater dripped off her derby hat, puddling on the floor.

“Look,” I said. “I just need some sleep. Which I can’t get with all of you poking at me all the time.”

“You’ve been sleeping for two days,” FrannyB said.

Beya came closer.

“Show her, Lily,” Omar said. “We have no choice.”

I turned away from everyone, staring into the black corners of the hut. In full teenager mode, I hissed, “Everyone needs to leave right now.”

Pain bolted across my skull. This time, there were no words or whispers, only an image of myself, naked, gray-fleshed, huge-bellied, pocked with disease. Stiff and prone on the mattress, lifeless. Flies landed on my still-open eyes.

With a sharp cry, I shook my head and forced the image from my mind. I held myself, felt my belly, felt my baby shift under my skin, convinced myself I hadn’t seen anything, until the image returned, clearer and sharper than before.

“Stop it, Beya,” I whispered. “Please just stop.”

The picture blurred, but remained, an afterimage.

Omar touched my back; his gentleness astounding to me. Why did it still bring tears to my eyes? I knew—my cells knew—that Omar was right. That if I wanted to live, I had to cooperate. I had to show Beya my devastated flesh. I drew in a deep breath, turned back around to the sputtering lamp and three hovering faces.

“Okay,” I said. “But let me do it.” Fingers quaking, I untied the string that cinched the neckline of my dress and rolled back the mud-colored fabric, turning my shoulder toward the light. Beya held the hissing lantern close to my flesh; its heat seemed to set my wound on fire.

“You need the sacred plant, Lily,” she said. “Don’t wait. You must go in person, otherwise they won’t give it to you.”

FrannyB gently covered me again. I searched her face, but it was unreadable. Beya and Omar stood at the doorway for several more minutes, speaking in low tones. Without a backward glance, Beya climbed down the steps in the rain. A minute later, FrannyB gathered herself to leave; I listened to her goodbye—low, dire, more warnings whispered urgently—before the squeak of her sneakers on the stairs as she left the hut.