The sound of a gun cocking stopped him cold. Dutchie emerged from a thatch of tall ferns near the bank. He walked quickly toward us, carbine lifted.

Omar sprung to his feet, the tattered paper flying out of his hands as he reached for his knife, the only weapon the Tatinga had let us keep. I went from mesmerized by Omar’s beautiful letter to a ball of terror in the pit of the boat, snatching at my dress to cover myself.

“I like it, Omar,” he said, smiling his snaggle-toothed smile, eyes arctic blue under stringy-blond bangs, sweat-soaked bandana tied around his forehead and half-an-ear. A threadbare shirt and rope-belted shorts hung off his gaunt frame. “I think I’ll call you Shakespeare from now on. Carlos’d hate that. Cuz he’s the bard, see?”

I slipped my dress over my body, my string bag over my shoulder.

“Problem is, the stupid fucker isn’t here to piss off. Nahh, he’d never believe ol’ Dutchie took control for once, which is why he’s going to lose, lose, lose—”

“Where is he?” Omar said, stepping out of the boat. He coolly took a few steps toward the poacher, blocking me.

“In Ayachero, looking for you. All the guys are there, waiting. Getting bored, drinking, screwing all your women.” He grinned at the thought of this. “I’ll have my turn, but first things first. You,” he said to me. “Get out of the boat.”

“My wife is ill—”

“And ready to pop one out I guess!” He gestured with the gun. “Get the fuck out of the boat.”

Steadying myself with the seat, I stepped out onto the wet sand.

“Give me all your weapons.”

Omar tossed the knife a few feet from Dutchie, who scrambled for it and tucked it in his belt.

“You. Give me that bag. Toss it over here.”

I did what he asked. He dumped the contents out on the ground: blowgun, darts, curare. In despair I gazed at our only remaining weapons scattered on the sand.

“What is this, Tatinga shit?” He gave the blowgun a swift kick; it flew off into the vegetation nearby. “Where’re your guns?”

“The Tatinga took them.”

He walked a slow circle around Omar. “Take off your shirt. Turn around. Empty your pockets.”

He did as he was asked, slowly, deliberately.

Dutchie lowered his gun and shot just inches from my right foot, blowing a hole in the sand. I jumped two feet to the left, my heart slamming in my chest.

“You better not be fucking lying to me.” He swung the gun first at me, then Omar, then back at me—at my belly. “You. Get over here.”

Omar gave me a small nod. Head down, I walked past him, feeling his warm breath on my neck. The moment I was in reach, Dutchie seized me around the shoulders, slammed me against his hard breastbone, and jammed the cold muzzle of the gun against the skin just above my left ear. I imagined my brains exploding out the other side.