Gnashing her blocky yellow teeth together, the donkey swung her big head toward me, blinked, then turned back away, pawing at the dusty ground with her front hoof.

I took a few slow breaths, calming myself before conjuring Beya’s bright eyes that missed nothing. In my head, I spoke the words loudly and clearly, “WHERE ARE YOU?”

Seconds later, I heard her as if she were standing next to me, as if I was leaning down to better hear her whisper: “THEY HAVE TAKEN ME. I HAVE HIDDEN MY SPIRIT IN THE LUPUNA TREE.”

I stepped out onto her camp’s circle of hard dirt. Beya’s string bag, the one in which she carried the poison frog and who knew what else, lay abandoned by the fire, unmoving. Still, I gave it a little shove with my toe before picking it up and making sure it was empty. Whatever had been in there had escaped. I slipped the bag over one shoulder. Carefully, I dragged the pot of water off the grate and onto the ground, so it could cool enough to clean myself and the baby.

My tiny boy filled his lungs and let fly, filling the air with piercing cries as I paced the camp. I tried to comfort him in the limited ways I knew, but he didn’t want my milk, and nothing seemed to calm him. From the direction of Ayachero, a scream so chilling even the baby paused his wail. It sounded like Anna, but I couldn’t be sure. I was desperate to run to her, my dearest friend in this place. What were they doing to her? I clutched my screaming baby to my chest; he must have heard my pounding heart and felt my own terror because he wailed even more pitifully, like he knew better than I that this was the end of us. A gunshot ricocheted among the treetops. Baby Omar paused for breath, or to register the sound, before opening his mouth again.

To save my life, I had to somehow quiet my baby boy.

I climbed the stairs to her hut. Under yellowed mosquito netting, a hammock hung motionless in the still air. Neat piles of plants marched along every wall. Dozens of old plastic and glass soda bottles filled with black or green sticky-looking liquids stood in rows on a colorful woven mat on the floor. Under the one open-air window, a well-used mortar and pestle and a half dozen empty bamboo containers sat on a simple wooden table. Tied to the sill by a jute cord, a small palm-frond box moved ever so slightly. A turquoise frog splotched with brilliant orange peeked from between the fronds. It lifted its head at my approach, throat pulsing, flesh glistening. It pushed itself up on its front legs and seemed to taste the air, blinked.

Another gunshot, far off, absorbed by the jungle.

I stared at the little frog, but what I saw was Omar’s body floating down the river in the bed of the canoe, its living wonder gone forever. I thought how he was no longer himself, just a meal for the fish and birds and river otters; this day—this jungle—was a nightmare I couldn’t stop dreaming, wide awake.