Dawn arrived full of fog and ghosts. Omar, his arm around my waist, half carried me down to one of the longboats, which he’d packed with all the supplies Ayachero could spare. It wasn’t much. A small bag of farina, a few strips of dried meat, torn cloths for bandages, a half canister of gas to get us back upriver.

Anna stepped away from her fire where she was making manioc cakes, her new baby girl snug in my old backpack, little Claudia clinging to her skirts. “Take this,” she said, pulling a black-and-red beaded bracelet off her own wrist. “It’s Tatinga-style. It’ll bring you good luck.” Around her eyes lingered traces of the grief I thought had eased. With a jolt, I realized hers was the face of someone saying goodbye forever. We hugged and held each other for a few extra seconds before she quickly turned back to her morning duties.

A little brown streak tore down the hill. Paco jumped in the water and flipped into the boat like a fish, settling himself down as if this was the plan. He carried his slingshot and a small canvas bag I’d sewn for him to hold his few belongings; he stashed everything at his feet in the bottom of the boat.

“Hey, stowaway,” Omar said sternly. “You’re not going anywhere.” A couple of dogs skittered along the sand and jumped into the boat—ready for a hunt—he slapped them on their rangy flanks and they leapt out again.

“I speak Tatinga,” Paco said.

“Out of the boat!” Omar pointed to the shore.

Little shoulders slumped, Paco slipped his slingshot across his back and reached for his bag. He dropped into the water off the lip of the boat, waded to shore and trudged along the bank, watching as Omar lifted and carried me to a thatch-roofed section of the canoe, under which he’d spread some rough blankets. I felt ridiculous, an invalid. I could have walked into the water and climbed into the canoe, but he insisted I keep my skin as dry as possible.

Paco splashed back in the water and handed me his slingshot, his most prized possession. I’ll never forget the look on his face, of love, of desolation. I told him no, I didn’t even know how to use it, but he pressed it into my hand anyway, before turning and running off, lost among the families cooking breakfast at their smoking ovens.

THIRTY-THREE

Clouds hung in a thick cottony mat over our heads. From where I lay: on my side, curled on top of the pile of thin woven blankets under the palm-frond roof, I watched Omar’s lean brown legs as he stood at the prow, guiding us through the strong currents with a leaf-shaped paddle. The banks of the river were soft brown clay, pitted with holes the size of softballs where armored catfish lay their eggs. Rain fell steadily, beating at the roof and coloring the air green, as though we were at the bottom of the ocean. Big blue kingfishers dashed at the water’s dimpled surface, emerging with wriggling fish. On a black shoal, an alabaster egret balanced on spindle legs. In waves from the river walls came the dense, half-rotted, half-sweet smell of flowers.