“I saw one swimming once, but that was years ago,” another man said.

“I wish I had easy answers for catching the one that took Benicio,” Omar said.

Franz dropped his head as if physically hit by the sound of his son’s name.

“Of course, we can look for scat or trees they’ve marked with their claws, but the best way is to take turns on the platform, waiting and watching, agreed?” Omar continued.

The men nodded, their faces serious and drawn.

“We’re short of men as it is, so this will be difficult. Maybe some of the women with older children can help out. It’s boring work. You’re just watching, in total silence. But we all know the jaguar’s not going to show up so we can kill it. We may catch this jaguar tomorrow, or next week, or never. We have to accept this. We have to be vigilant, but we have to go on.”

I set down my plate of yucca, now cold and congealed in a pool of oil, as I mulled Doña Antonia’s words. As I listened to the men speak, I indulged in a quick fantasy: I would be the one to nail the jaguar from the top of the platform. Ridiculous, of course, but I was determined to show Omar’s mother I wasn’t some useless, vain gringa. There had to be some way I could become part of this bizarre, terrifying place.

ELEVEN

By midafternoon, most of the population of Ayachero had gathered at the foot of the longhouse in anticipation of Benicio’s funeral. All of us—Omar, Panchito, the hunters, Doña Antonia, and myself—descended the stairs and joined the milling crowd of nearly a hundred. Though it was broad daylight, many carried blazing torches that licked up into the boiling air. Paco pushed his way through the crowd and took my hand. Franz and Anna were the only ones I couldn’t spot in the swarm of mourners.

I followed Omar to the front of the procession, where two white women, one a head taller and fifty pounds heavier than her smaller, slighter companion, weaved among the crowd, the bigger one encouraging everyone in perfect though condescending Spanish to gather in some sort of a line. Nailed to a three-foot balsa cross braced against her shoulder was a crudely carved wooden Christ, mouth in an eternal droop, rusty tears burned into the grain. An actual crown of thorns circled his head. His pedestal was signed: FRANNYA, AYACHERO, 1998, in loopy letters.

The woman carrying the cross caught sight of me; waved, smiled, and bellowed out a cheerful hello from several yards away. I was struck by how American that gesture looked and felt; a wave of self-consciousness—Am I that brash and loud?—washed over me.

“Greetings,” she said, reaching out to pump my hand. “You must be Lily. We’re the Frannies. Not sure if you’ve heard of us yet. Both named Frances, so we had to, you know, differentiate.” Thin gray hair pulled back in a little bun at her neck, the gaunt woman standing next to her gazed up at me through thick, round, rimless glasses, one lens cracked but somehow still holding together. The first woman continued, “She goes by FrannyA, and I’m FrannyB. For what it’s worth.”