He shifted the sack of supplies he carried to his other shoulder, examined me. “The village needs food. I want to build you a real house—”

“I don’t have anyone here but you. You’re my whole family now.”

“Everyone in Ayachero is your family.”

I scowled. He looked around, his face hardening, kindness leaking away. I estimated the total time I’d known him—it was June now—so barely three months? He scanned the shore, a bustling scene of men sorting supplies and loading the boats, their backs slick with midday sweat.

Half a dozen women packed one end of the boat with pots, knives, and a few small sacks of manioc, as the dogs circled. Some had already jumped in the canoes to claim their places; they panted, sniffed around for scraps, pausing to lick their mangy coats. The little runt Mariposa skittered along by my side.

Omar dropped his bag, pulled out a machete, and handed it to me. “Keep this with you.” He was already in the jungle. I could see it.

I took it from him; the twenty-inch steel blade hung down heavily and too close to my leg. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Keep it in the hut. And promise me you’ll stay out of the jungle. Especially dawn and dusk. Those are the worst times to be on the paths. The night animals are coming out to hunt, and the daytime animals are trying to hide. You don’t want to get in their way. Are you listening? Stay in the village.”

“When are you coming back?”

“We come back with food, otherwise . . .” He shrugged.

“Otherwise what?”

“Otherwise no one eats. Not you, not me, not anyone.” The dog had given up on licking my hands and sat her warm ass down on my foot, staring up at me with the bottomless hope of dogs, the ridge of her bony back resting against my shin.

“But . . . the fish, can’t you always catch—”

He laughed, waving me away. “This is the jungle. There is no ‘always.’ ”

“Where’s Anna? Why isn’t she here to say goodbye to Franz?”

“She never does that. She thinks it’s unlucky.”

“Really. What will I do while I wait?” I reddened, thinking of Doña Antonia’s comment about having nothing to do but stare in the mirror while he was gone.

He held me by the shoulders and looked me in the eye, as if trying to stare some strength or resolve into me. “Wait for what, me? Just be Lily, then everything will come to you.”

He turned away and climbed into the boat with Franz and the rest of the men. The dogs sat up and wagged their tails, turning in tight circles before resettling in their strict confines. They could taste the hunt in their mouths. The current began to take interest in the boat, nudging the bow downriver.

Omar stood on the lip of the canoe, a jungle gondolier, one paddle wedged deep in the thick mud of the shore. With a powerful shove, he pushed the boat away from the bank. Perfectly spaced alongside each other, both boats—one with six men, the other with two women and several dogs—receded quickly from the bank, the river only too happy to sweep them into its narrative of currents and eddies. Villagers who had come to see the hunters off began to drift away up the hill. The bend in the river erased the canoes, as if they had never existed.