There was nothing of use in Dutchie’s canoe. I peered out over the churning brown water. His body had caught in a bony snag of fallen logs several yards away in waist-high water, one arm and leg lifted up against it and held there by the current, as if he were trying to climb over it. I waded out to him. Tried to shut out the ridiculous idea that he might still be alive. Squeezing my eyes shut, I felt along his back for his belt. The second my hand landed on Omar’s knife, I grabbed it and launched myself away from him.

On shore, I rescued Omar’s assignment from a thicket of ferns where it had landed, and read the last few lines:

. . . your stomach is full from your own cleverness. Learn every day. No knowledge is beneath you. Respect your elders. Hold on to your little flame of self, because the world wants to blow it out, my beloved son. With a sharp cry I fell to my knees, tucking the note to my chest.

Acknowledging that it would be close to impossible to keep the paper dry, I wrapped it in a palm leaf and put in my string bag. The jungle would come for Omar no matter what I did, but it crushed me to leave him on the sand. It took all my strength to drag his body to Dutchie’s canoe. I gathered a few dozen big leaves, heliconia flowers, and some giant white lilies floating near the bank, creating a soft, fragrant bed in the canoe. Bit by bit, I rolled his body in, the jungle above me a cathedral of sorrow. I took his glasses from his back pocket, wrapped his fingers around them. I kissed him one last time, lips already cold, then covered him with the rest of the palms and flowers, trying to remember what the Tatinga had placed in their death canoe for Benicio. Plants, flowers, his slingshot and toys, and a set of his little clothes. I had no such talismans for the father of my child. I told him that I was sorry, that I would have to keep his knife, and my blowgun and darts, and smiled to myself as I imagined him saying, Don’t be a fool. Take everything you need to survive; I’m already in another jungle . . .

Parting wheel-sized water plants, I waded out waist-deep with the canoe. Before I let myself think, I let go of the battered gunwale. The river took him with a kind of elegance, turning him just once, as if granting a benediction, then carried him off so fast I couldn’t bear it. I hadn’t said enough goodbyes, as if there is ever enough time to say all there is to say to someone we love.

Standing in our canoe, I yanked at the rusted chain attached to the nine-horsepower motor; a feat of contorted gymnastics as I tried to avoid smacking my bulging belly. Nothing. I sat a moment, attempted to gather my wits. Got up and tried again. The motor farted gray smoke, sputtered to silence. I cursed a bloody streak of loathing at the thing. Was I flooding it? What would Omar do? I eased myself back down on the seat, closed my eyes and saw—without Beya’s assistance this time—my own death; a green, swollen body under circling vultures. Got up and tried again, harder, wrenching a muscle in my shoulder. Still nothing, the jungle eerily quiet, as if mocking me. It finally occurred to me to check the gas. A third full, was that enough? Fourth try, I jerked the thing harder than I thought possible. It caught with a snorting sort of rumble—such a beautiful sound, such an intoxicating smell. The muddy brown water foamed at the bow as I nosed out into the flow, passing Dutchie’s body still held fast against the snarl of river detritus.