Insanely soft, the baby sloth rolled into my cupped hands. Its tiny eyes blinked against the light, its arms falling back as in a silent fit of laughter before curling forward in a ball. It breathed hotly into my palm before drifting back asleep as if drugged. Maybe even snored there. Omar took it from me and ran to the mother, who had only moved a yard or so, her version of top speed, unbearably clumsy as she scrabbled forward with outstretched arms. He placed the baby sloth in the grass next to her. With infinite tenderness, she found her infant, nudging her snub-nosed snout into its fur. The baby sloth woke and crawl-rolled, whimpering and snuffling, onto her back.

“Was I right? Are you amazed?” Omar said.

“I am.”

“You have a boyfriend, Lily?”

We stood too close to each other for me to breathe. The trees shadowed then revealed his face as the winds gently moved the leaves. “I don’t want a boyfriend,” I choked out.

He nodded and smiled. “How do you speak Spanish so well?”

“Studied it in school.”

“What do you think about teaching me English? Are you an English teacher here?”

I shrugged, reddening as I recalled my shame at the airport when I realized no one was going to meet me and sweep me away to some fabulous teaching job. “Sometimes. Nothing steady.”

The sloth had made it a yard or so up the trunk of the tree to the lowest branch; she swung from one arm and one leg, smiling her enigmatic sloth smile under her low forehead, her twin in miniature clinging to her chest.

“Let’s start tomorrow. Okay, Lily?”

I laughed and looked at him. Who was this guy? What did he really want? Then again, couldn’t he actually be who he appeared to be—somebody decent? Britta and Molly singsonged my name, motioning for me to return to our table. I didn’t wave back.

“What’s your number?” He reached in his shirt pocket and took out a book of matches and a stubby little pencil.

“I don’t have a phone.”

“Where do you live? I’ll be there at two o’clock sharp.”

I finally met his eye. “I don’t want to teach you English.”

He raised an eyebrow and laughed. “No? Then maybe we’ll just take a motorcycle ride. Have a picnic in the Beni.”

“No way will I get on one of those things.”

He looked confused, borderline hurt. Two parallel scars just above his right eye deepened momentarily. “I’m the best driver out there, the safest in Bolivia, like a magic carpet ride. You’ll be fine, I swear. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

I thought about what Molly had said when I’d remarked that all the guys drove their bikes like maniacs through the streets of Cochabamba. She’d brushed that away. Those jungle guys, they can ride a motorcycle in their sleep. They’re hard-core. Even Molly had to grant Bolivian men this much grace. But more than that, the man had offered to take me on a picnic! Had any man ever proposed such a romantic and gentlemanly date? So a few beds would be left unmade at the Versailles. Fuck it. What did I have to lose?