Through the mesh of greenery, the tips of three more arrows emerged, pointing from various angles toward us. Three more men stepped out from the vegetation.

The hunter opened his mouth to speak to Omar; I tried not to gasp. Each of his teeth had been sharpened to a point; several were pitch-black, others a dark yellow. Out came a blur of language, highly articulated, completely incomprehensible to my ears. Omar answered slowly, repeating his own name a few times. The men visibly recoiled to hear their language coming from this non-Tatinga, his enormously pregnant gringa at his side. As he spoke, Omar made eye contact with each man, before at last turning back to their leader.

“Pacchu,” the man said. The whites of his eyes shown as they widened in their background of black-and-red-stained skin.

“It means ‘Possum Face,’ ” Omar said. “My Tatinga name.” The men flashed each other angry looks, pointing at my belly, my hair. “Lily, this is MiddleEye, Splitfoot’s son. I won’t say his Tatinga name, understand?”

I nodded, not a drop of saliva in my mouth available to speak.

MiddleEye scowled, barked some sort of joke at the men; they laughed and took a step forward, shoulders relaxed, emboldened, many of them gesturing at me.

“They think you’re a missionary. They’re asking for gifts,” Omar said, never taking his eyes off the men. Black blood dripped from the spider monkey onto a wide, waxy leaf beneath him.

The taller hunter with the tortoise pointed at Omar’s machete and smirked, inspiring another escalating volley of Tatinga before Omar handed it over, along with his gun and another knife. They took turns running their fingers along the machete’s blade, nodding appreciatively before turning to me.

The chirring of insects throbbed in my ears; my arms trembled at my sides. I could feel myself being chewed away from the inside. The eyes of the men bored through me.

“Do you have anything?” Omar said.

“My knife, that’s all.”

“Give it to me.”

“But it’s—”

“Give me the goddamned knife.”

My hands shook so hard I almost couldn’t free my switchblade from my belt. Never thought I’d feel nostalgia for a knife, but it was one of the few things I’d managed to hold on to, and by then I’d skinned and cleaned countless animals with it and never went anywhere without it. The last weapon between us, gone.

MiddleEye accepted the present from Omar, turned it over a few times, sneered, and handed it back to one of the men, who took it and tucked it in his liana belt. He took a step toward me; his rank breath steaming up at me, a smell of rancid fat emanating from him, pointy teeth glimmering obsidian in the weak light. He reached up seemingly to touch my hair; I bent my head slightly so he could do it and be done with it.

He touched it gently at first, then grabbed a handful and yanked hard, pulling out a few long scraggly red hairs and holding them up like a prize. Omar took a step forward but didn’t stop him. Sweat pouring down his chest, he stood close, his eyes begging me to keep my wits about me. The men laughed, relaxing now as they threw strands of my hair up into the tea-colored light, warming to the afternoon’s entertainment. Smirking, MiddleEye put his hand flat on my belly and said something I sensed wasn’t a compliment. Omar stiffened, took another step, almost between us now, but the hunter grinned with his row of cat teeth and moved his hand, slowly, tauntingly, up toward my breast. Omar smacked his hand away. A moment later; a solid thud. An arrow pierced the top of Omar’s foot, pinning him to the ground, the shaft humming in the dim light.