The jungle snapped and whined, a round of locusts joined the symphony.

“I’m giving you a chance here.” He huffed as if the one-way conversation was exhausting him, placed his hands on his knees, and squinted at the shadows under the longhouse where I’d hidden just minutes ago. “Not a lot of men would do that. It’s time to stop playing games, wouldn’t you say? Just show your face and all is forgiven, okay, man? Just show your fucking loser face.”

He yanked his hat tighter on his head, adjusting the purple eye patch as he peered with his one good eye at the yawning dark, at a million different things that could kill him. Arms folded over his belly, he stood a full minute, mumbling elaborate curses, listing all the many favors he’d granted Dutchie over the years, finally declaring in conclusion that as of this moment he wasn’t worth the shit on his heel. I scrambled higher and higher. The fat man turned back toward the bar, shoulders drooping in defeat.

“Well fuck you then, you little pissant,” he said, his voice empty of bravado.

With a stifled gasp, I reached the platform. I dragged myself up on it, bellying forward on my elbows, inch by inch, to the edge that overlooked the bar.

Carlos paused at the dancing light and shadow thrown by the torch next to Beya’s still form. He crouched down next to her, said something inaudible, then got to his feet again.

“It wasn’t you, was it, you nasty old witch?” He gave her a swift kick in the gut. She didn’t move. “You’re not trying to fool old Carlos, are you?” He gave her one more vicious kick and strolled toward the bar.

Never taking my eyes from the scene beneath me, I reached for Beya’s string bag. With badly shaking fingers, I wriggled the first dart out of the quiver and placed it—in total darkness—as I had been taught, alongside the soft kapok fluff inside the gun. Beneath me, the big poacher’s hat bobbed as he took a long drink, settled himself down again among half a dozen of the men who had gathered for their meal—it looked as if they were eating in shifts in order to keep guard on the villagers. Carlos accepted a plate of food from one of the men, laughing at something I couldn’t hear. His shoulder was in my sights, and on this windless night, was perhaps beefy enough that I could hit it, even from thirty feet away.

The men spoke in low tones, clearly sobered by the incident. They gathered around plates of roasted plantains. A large slab of tapir cooked on a wide metal grill over a fire.

I looked for the stillness inside myself, for hope and confidence, for the opposite of everything that I had ever felt. I let out all the air from my lungs till I thought I would pass out, drew in a long, silent breath, and blew.