“Okay,” he said, eyeing Splitfoot. “Walk around the oven here. I’ll explain to him what you’re doing.”

Clutching my belly, I stumbled forward, walking in slow circles around the low grate, on which spat and sizzled a set of monkey arms. Omar’s and Splitfoot’s voices rose and fell, a blend of Tatinga and Spanish. I stroked my belly, spoke in soft tones to the child who slept under the harsh fabric of my dress, my stretched skin; whispered to him the story of Wilbur the pig and Charlotte, the brave spider who stood up for him; he was going to be courageous like that one day, too.

Screaming in Tatinga, MiddleEye jumped in front of me, jaw thrust out, porcupine quills twitching. I halted midstride and sucked in a lungful of air, tried to put my heart back in my body. Rivulets of sweat ran down his face, black eyes swam in yellow pools.

“Lily, stop!” Omar hissed.

Slowly, I turned toward him.

“He thinks you’re putting a hex on the village.”

MiddleEye shouted at me again; my head whipped back to face him. Spittle foamed in the corners of his mouth, dragon teeth clicked. With exaggerated goose steps he marched the opposite way that I had walked around the fire, calling out what sounded like numbers . . . had he been counting how many laps I’d taken around the oven? Nine times he circled it; each time he came to face me, glowering, rattling his chonta knife, the long muscle of his torso tightening like a chord. Every third word was “Beya.” I felt a hand take mine; the young woman who had given me the calabash of water chattered in Tatinga as she led me to an empty hammock. I melted into it.

Night had fallen, the blackest I’d ever seen. Around me, vague shapes weighted down hammocks, while several men leaned against the poles, smoking and gazing out at the night.

Omar rushed to my side. “Listen, Lily. Splitfoot said MiddleEye is going to ask the spirits of the plants if you’re worthy of being cured. That’s the way he put it.”

“But MiddleEye’s not a shaman.”

“Splitfoot refuses to do it. He says his son can ask just as well as he can.”

“He’s out of his mind. He won’t—”

“Come on, they’re making a meal for us. We need to be there.”

“I don’t want any—”

“Let’s go, Lily.”

I tried to move. Shock waves of agony rippled deep in the marrow of my shoulder, the backs of my legs. I could barely unwrap my body from the clutches of the hammock, heavy against the knotted palm twine.

He reached under the hammock and lifted me until I could stand; half carried me outside and sat me down at a long, rough table, just a pitted slab of wood laid across two stumps, where men and women sat eating bowls of some kind of soup. A woman with a baby at her breast handed me a deep clay bowl filled to the brim with steaming liquid. A monkey arm was sticking out of it, resting against the edge. Its little hand hung limply down from the wrist, fully articulated, creased palms, fingernails, everything. It looked like a child’s hand.