“We’re all so happy that you’re here,” Franz said.

A few smiles, nods, and exclamations of agreement brightened a face here and there, and I was almost able to exhale.

“This is my wife, Lily,” Omar said. No one spoke a word. Keen embarrassment washed over me; what would happen if they knew we weren’t really married? But Omar’s face was serene, full of pride, and I loved him for it. He took his time making eye contact with each of the villagers in turn, securing at most a smile, at least the slightest of nods. “Please welcome her into your lives. Please help to teach her what you know, be kind to her.”

“I’m Anna,” the pregnant woman said. “And this is my husband, Franz, and Claudia.” She stroked her little girl’s head, drew her close. “Thank you for coming here. Thank you for bringing Omar to help us. We know it’s a lot to ask of both of you.”

“It’s good to be here,” I said, injecting as much sincerity as I could.

“You speak Spanish,” Franz said. “Where are you from?”

“Boston, Massachusetts.”

“You have terrible snowstorms there, in the United States,” Anna said, passing one hand protectively over her belly. “People must freeze to death in all the ice. I’d be so frightened to go there. You must be quite brave.”

“I don’t know about that.” I shifted my weight, no idea how to proceed. “I’m sorry about what happened.”

She dropped her gaze to the hard dirt. “So are we.” Franz pulled her close to him.

Up on the hill, out of view, the pig screamed, its slaughter no doubt in full swing.

The pilot, finished with his duties, yanked at Omar’s shirt. “Hey, now you pay me.”

Omar handed him some wet bills from his back pocket. Without a second’s hesitation, he began splashing back to his plane. Please don’t leave me here, I thought.

We followed Franz, Anna, and Claudia as they climbed the muddy bank to the beaten earth of the village. The crowd of villagers parted and let us through. It was a relief to hear the rustling and soft chatter as they gathered themselves and made their way back to normalcy; somehow that helped break some strange spell. Still, I felt eyes darting furtively in my direction, at my parchment-white skin, my turmeric-red hair, my bright American clothes and backpack. We passed the man gutting the pig, scooping out its entrails with a halved calabash into the biggest pot I had ever seen. He stopped to stare a moment, nodded, then went back to his work. A dozen dogs, a ratty, nearly hairless, big-eared breed, lay dozing around the pot, a few with one eye on the proceedings. A pile of plantain peels sat nearby, buzzing with flies. Somewhere a tinny radio played a jangly love song Omar and I had danced to just weeks ago on the promenade in Cochabamba.

The green wall of the jungle hissed and steamed as we passed hut after hut, each with its own oven and fire, its own set of naked children running and playing, its own underfed, fly-bitten dog, until we came to the hut farthest from the river, its oven closed and dark. Franz and Anna said their goodbyes and turned back to the longhouse as we approached the empty, cupcake-shaped building, the roof thatched palm, the sides bamboo. A fifteen-foot ladder led to a roughly square opening, which I supposed was the front door.