Under his continual chatter, I heard some other truth, something I was too tired that night to really get at. Nestled in the crook of my elbow, my baby boy slept, his hot, dense warmth fitting to my side, key to a lock. I drew back a thin cloth to look at him; he wore a little shawl and a cotton diaper knotted at his tiny hips. Anna had let me borrow a dress I’d sewn for her, the one she loved best, with the pattern of smiling, dancing coffee beans in little black and red hats. I peeled back the fabric from my arm, forcing myself to look at my skin. Even by flickering torchlight, it was clear the lesions had shrunk to less than half their original size, retreating like islands being devoured by the rising tide of healthy skin around them. The last bag of poultice—Panchito had retrieved it for me—sat at my feet.

We were all relieved to learn that Marietta had escaped the poacher by hiding under a pile of empty food sacks in one of the storerooms. Now she sat at the sewing machine, struggling to repair the tiny sleeve of a child’s shirt. Though—in my mind—the machine really belonged to Ayachero, I told her that if she promised to take care of it, she could call herself the village seamstress. She was thrilled with the idea.

“Lily,” she blurted in frustration. “Can you help me with this?”

“Be right there.” Every move a negotiation with my aching body, I swung my legs over the side of the hammock, cradling the baby along one arm.

As I sat at the sewing table, I felt a hand on my back. Anna, her infant tucked in my old backpack, Claudia and Paco by her side, pulled up a bench next to us and sat. She hugged me and said, “So how are you feeling? Are you ready for tomorrow?”

“As ready as I can be, I guess,” I said. “But I can’t tell you how much I’ll miss everyone here.” It was impossible to express my mixture of bottomless grief for Omar, sadness—and relief—about leaving Ayachero, and angst-filled anticipation for a future back home with a newborn, alone. Every time panic overcame me, I conjured Omar telling me there was no problem I couldn’t solve, no jungle so dark and deep and dangerous I couldn’t find my way through.

“No one’s claimed my magazines or books,” I said. “Do you want them, for when you learn English?” My passport, tucked securely in the back pages of Pride and Prejudice these many months, was now in a small pocket I’d sewn into my dress.

“Of course.” She laughed. “Thank you. For now, I’ll enjoy the pictures.”

Paco dragged the heavy leather bag of poultice closer to me. “I can put this mud on you.”

“Will you, Paco? Just here, on the back of my shoulder where I can’t reach.”

Paco scooped up a handful of the green mud, applying it so gently I cried a little bit, thinking of Omar’s touch, something I would never feel again. As he worked on my back, I spread the salve on all the places I could reach; in moments came the familiar stab of healing pain.