Again I tried to quiet my baby, but he wasn’t having it. I kissed him on his forehead and lay him down in the hammock, praying I could muster the strength to do what had to be done.

The frog’s bulbous four-fingered hands scrabbled between the fronds, its orange blotches glowing in the tannin shadows of the hut. I pulled out a dart from my quiver, slipped the flat, sharp edge between the fronds and scraped it along the length of the frog. It squeaked in terror and leapt at its enclosure, flattening itself against one side of the box.

A drop under the skin makes a baby sleep for hours. Four will kill it.

One drop of clear secretion trembled on the edge of the dart.

I turned to the hammock. In one swift movement—just as he drew in another breath to cry—I slipped the tip of the dart into the tender flesh of his elbow. Immediately he closed his mouth and went limp. With a stifled cry of my own, I snatched him close to my chest and listened for a heartbeat, holding his face against mine to feel for his breath. Both were there, faint, fluttery, hummingbird fast. He lay silent and slack in my arms, his body pale and already cooler to the touch, even though I spoke to him and rubbed his little limbs.

I felt a hundred years old. Exhausted, beat-up. Part of me wanted to give up so badly: What in hell was I supposed to do now? But I knew what Omar would say: Everything you will ever need is right in front of you. Use what you have.

From a basket suspended by sisal rope from the ceiling of the hut, I scouted out a few pieces of genipap fruit, cut them in half, took out the seeds and mashed them with the mortar and pestle, the black dye of the seeds exploding in the pulp. Sprouting Leaf had shown me this trick when I’d asked her how she made the dye for her face. Now I coated my face and neck with it, even my scalp.

Another wail from the direction of the village.

Adrenaline charged through me as, one by one, I scraped each of the five blowdarts alongside the frog, air-drying them before tucking them back into their hard leather quiver. I loosened my string bag, laid it out flat on the floor of the hut. After wrapping Omar in a small woven blanket I took from Beya’s hammock, I tucked him in the bag and slipped it over my shoulders; his tiny body now nestled against my back. In Beya’s bag, which I wore over one shoulder so it hung in front, I stored the blowgun and darts. Got up to leave and took a final look around. Well-worn but clean-looking shirts were folded in a basket—I took two. From Beya’s table I chose a bamboo container, tested the seals on both ends, and made my way down the stairs.