The boat began to turn in sickening circles. I reached back and grabbed the till as I’d seen Omar do—he’d used the motor as a rudder—and lay back against the damp leather bags. Eyes shut tight, I breathed the peaty smell of the leaves, asking them to heal my heart as well as my skin; where was my strength, where was my bravery, where was my self? How could I survive this? As I inhaled the sickly jungle-sweet air, a thousand images flashed by, a gallery of scenes from my short, strange life: the cameo-sized photo of my foster mother Tia at her sewing machine, smiling up at me from her kaleidoscopic nest of threads and bobbins; of a hundred doors slamming behind me as I ran from group homes, into rain, into snow, into blazing sun, on buses, on trains, on foot, away from what was never good enough; I sat laughing and drinking with Britta and Molly at the bar in Cochabamba; I followed Omar under the string of Christmas lights as he led me to the smiling sloth; I watched Paco make me a comb out of palm fronds; there was Anna swirling in the new burlap dress I’d sewn her; Doña Antonia handing me the sacred fire, the small nod of Splitfoot’s head telling me I believe you are a shaman, or I believe you enough to give you this plant that might save you, so that you will do something good for our tribe.

An hour passed, maybe two, as I hugged the bank, where the current was weaker, to make the most of what diesel remained. My eyes rested on the shore and the wall of jungle passing by, all that sameness along with the sound of the motor chugging along lulling me into a torpor. One hand on the tiller, I lay on my side tasting the breath of a billion plants exhaling. Above me, the great heavy sky passed sullenly, crossed by barbets, tanagers, and jacamars—small birds—all of them bright, quick flashes of color. Much higher up, dun-colored raptors floated, their claws weighted with prey. A pair of vultures threaded in lazy figure eights through the canopy; I would not let myself think what had brought them there. The death of Omar was just a shadow passing, met with a sigh of apathy from the jungle, meaningless to everything here but myself.

With a jolt, I remembered what he had said to me just days before. You don’t wake up alive in the jungle because you were smarter or trickier. You stay alive here because you paid attention.

I pushed myself up to my elbows, as close to a seated position as I could manage. In those hours of nonfunctional grief, I had veered out toward the center of the river, where the current was strongest. My progress was pitiful. I watched the shape of the bank closely; I was bumping along at a standstill. Leaning on the rudder—the force of the river resisting my every move—I aimed the bow of the canoe toward shore.