Nothing.

His big shoulder shone with sweat by the firelight, flexed as he kept on eating, chatting with the men.

The dart landed a good five feet behind him, quite close to the forest wall; it looked like a stiff blade of black grass in the dirt, not remarkable at all unless you were looking for it. I crawled across the platform to the other side, just five feet from where I shot the first dart, before loading the second one. Drew my long, slow inhale.

The moment I let it go, Carlos reached out to accept a tapir shank offered to him; the dart landed exactly where his shoulder had been, sticking out of the ground just where the leg of the bar was stuck into the dirt. Fuck.

Sweat dripped into my hands as I held my head, trying to hold back a flood of dread. My pelvis pounded, screaming at me to stop, rest. Could not. Would not. Three more darts.

Anything, everything could go wrong.

Hands slippery and trembling, I quickly loaded the third dart. Blew it out of the gun without taking the time to completely fill my lungs. God knows where that one landed. A completely useless panic shot. Heads down into their meals, the men spoke in tones too low for me to hear, snorting at their own jokes and wiping greasy fingers on their many-pocketed pants.

Chastising myself, I slowly, methodically began to load the fourth dart, breathing little prayers into the hollow tube. The baby stirred on my back. Just the smallest, smallest movement. It might have even been a little hiccup. My hands froze in place, one finger on the soft kapok, the other making sure the business end of the dart faced downward and away. With terrible slowness, I set the blowgun down on the thin, uneven planks. I closed my eyes and took shallow breaths, my body tense as wood, a lightning rod, listening, blanking out pain so I could feel for any movement or sound.

For long seconds he stayed where he was; I exhaled—it had been a burp, or some dream. Good boy, Omar, I thought, good boy. The moment I reached for the blowgun, his little knee jammed into my spine. I felt him struggling to turn, tiny fingers grappling for purchase against my back. Thankful for the radio, I pushed myself from my stomach to hands and knees to a seated position, got my legs under me, and—every movement considered—slipped the strap of the string bag off one shoulder as Omar squirmed.

I lifted him off my back and tucked him in my lap. His little blanket fell open. With one hand I stroked his head and chest, he felt slightly feverish, his skin like silk. I felt my way down from his shoulder to the crook of his left elbow, to the place that still held the indentation from my first injection. He panted into my fingers, his lips mouthing my flesh as he sought to suckle, limbs moving slowly as if he were treading water.