One rather undersized boy with a large, purplish birthmark that covered half his face and much of his neck—maybe six years old—squatted at my feet, chin in hand as he stared up at me, patiently waiting for the curious girl to go away. He wore ragged shorts held up by a rope. A necklace of black and red beads was looped several times around his slender neck. When the girl finally lost interest, he stood, reached up, and took my hand. After leading me a short distance away from the plane full of children, he asked me quite seriously in Spanish, “Will you be my mother? My mother is dead.”

My gut knotted up just looking at him, his solemn, handsome face that burst into a blazing white smile as if to say, Look, I’m friendly, this will be okay. Being my mother? Not such a big deal. Still, he gripped my hand so tightly it hurt.

“No sé . . .” I don’t know.

His smile faded. I died a little.

“But I am alone, miss. See?” He turned, pointing to his little shadow, stark on the hard mud. “I only have my shadow.”

Panchito splashed across the narrow tributary toward the bank, his shirt flapping behind him. A couple of the men on the shore gave him a weak greeting, a back slap or vague hug as he made his way along the line of people toward a middle-aged woman who stood hands on hips, head cocked and lip curled, her heavy breasts under her loose shirt grazing the waist of her sun-bleached skirt. She nodded at him, a walnut-sized goiter at her neck bobbing. A machete dangled from one hand; a dead duck was draped over one shoulder, orange feet pointed down ballerina-style. I caught her looking at Omar with what might have been longing, but she glared at me until I reddened and looked away. By the time I had the courage to glance back at her, she had turned from the beach and was walking toward the center of the village, shoulders hunched and defeated looking. Panchito followed her, vanishing into the maze of huts and smoking fires.

“What’s your name?” I asked the little boy, who still clutched my hand.

“Paco,” he said, bursting with pride. “What’s yours?”

“Lily. Lirio. Like the flower.”

“Te quiero,” he said. I love you.

I loved him already, but didn’t know it and certainly couldn’t handle it; his directness, his bald need. Like looking into a little mirror of my younger self.

The pilot, his T-shirt soaked through with sweat, lifted rubberized sacks almost as big as he was—of flour, lentils, farina, dried beans, sugar, and rice—from the hold, and dropped them in the water. Coated in liquid latex to keep water out, the canvas sacks bobbed a yard apart on a rope. A bag of machetes and shotguns floated by among the foodstuffs. Jumping into the waist-deep water, the pilot, with Omar’s help, began to drag the supplies to shore.