A heavyset man sat at a card table nursing a beer and a smoke. He wore a filthy madras shirt and ragged cutoffs. His eyes were slits in his chubby face, clipped black hair slicked back. One foot wore a rope and leather sandal, the other leg was missing from the knee down; a complex system of straps and clasps held a roughly carved wooden prosthetic. His belly was a perfectly round ball straining the two remaining buttons of the shirt.

He pushed himself to standing and held out his hand for me to shake.

“Lily, this is my brother Panchito.”

“Encantado,” he said. He smiled briefly, his eyes disappearing in puffy cheeks.

“Panchito came from Ayachero to tell me some bad news.” Omar sat heavily in a blown-out armchair, rubbing his face with his hands. “Have a seat, Lily.”

The weight of exhaustion and sorrow in the room mixed with the reek of crankcase oil, rubber, and gasoline. I pulled out a rickety stool and tried to get comfortable on it, while Panchito awkwardly took his seat again, setting his leg at right angles to his knee under the table with his hands.

“A jaguar has killed our brother Franz’s son, Benicio,” Omar said. “He was only four years old.”

Panchito stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing tray. “We saw jaguar prints at the far end of the Tortoise Beach. Way down past all the boats. We think he wandered off to play with the baby tortoises. Or maybe to gather some eggs for dinner to surprise his mother. It was Anna’s birthday. He was always trying to help. He looked a lot like you, Omar, everyone said.”

He handed Omar a beat-up photo. Omar gazed at it, then handed it to me. A little-boy version of Omar straddled an overturned canoe, grinning as he held an enormous fish to the camera.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“We haven’t found a body. No clothing, nothing. But we’re sure. The way his prints went, and then the jaguar’s . . .”

“No one heard anything?” Omar leaned forward in his chair, shoulders rigid, strong hands hanging down loosely from his wrists. Harsh overhead light carved dark circles under his eyes as he focused on some distant point on the floor. Fear flipped my heart; I knew him, but not well enough to know how this would touch him.

“The men were hunting,” Panchito continued. “The women—mostly they were in the manioc fields. The Frannies were down from their camp teaching the older kids, but they do that in the longhouse. It’s hard to hear from up there.”

“The Frannies are two American missionaries,” Omar said, eyes still glazed over. “Both named Frances. I’m amazed they’re still around.”

Panchito crossed his arms high over his belly. “It’s not like it was. So many men have left, Omar, so many young families, off to San Solidad, then La Paz. We’re down to maybe a hundred now, lots of old people, lots of kids. Maybe half a dozen guys who can still hunt. You leaving . . . It gave everyone ideas.”