It took some time, but they eventually woke Pepper, coaxed him out of bed, and told him to drink water until he had enough strength to stand. Then they moved Nitro’s body inside so the animals on the island wouldn’t get to it. They set it next to Pita’s body, covering both with the sheet from Pepper’s bed. Finally they went to Lucinda’s room, to attempt to rouse her as well. A sour, yeasty smell permeated the air. The woman’s skin was dire, her face possessed with an unnatural stillness, and Elizaveta feared the worst before Jack confirmed it a moment later.

“She’s dead,” he said.

2

They collected their packs—Jack carried Pepper’s camera bag also—and they made their way to the pier. The sky was overcast, smudged with anvil-headed clouds. The air held that trapped-breath quality that often follows storms. A gloomy stillness hung over everything like a funeral shroud. Numerous plants were uprooted or broken, while severed branches littered the ground. Amazingly, however, most of the dolls remained dangling from the dripping trees just as they’d been the day before, only now rinsed clean of some of their grime and spider webs, their ragtag clothes soggy.

When they passed the hut with the shrine, Jack led María inside to the portrait of the Mexican man with the mustache and poncho hanging on the wall. “Do you know him?” he asked.

Her eyes shone. “That’s my dad. He went to the market to get me a doll.”

3

Unsurprisingly the canoe was gone. Jesus had taken it; he would likely be halfway back to Xochimilco by now. So they settled down on the pier and waited for the boatman to come.

4

At one point María wandered off into the woods without a word. They let her go. She’d survived on her own until now. The police could find her later.

Jack

1

The sky remained dreary for much of the morning, but gradually the sun burned away the depressing clouds. The cawing and screeching of birds greeted the new day. Then the flies and mosquitos returned, buzzing and biting, followed by the drone of the cicadas. I began to have my doubts that the boatman would come after all, but we had no option but to continue to wait and hope. For much of this time my mind was like a wheel caught in a muddy rut. It spun relentlessly on everything Pita, replaying the happy times we’d shared together. Nevertheless, this didn’t lift my mood. Instead, it made me incredibly sad. Part of this was due to nostalgia, the sense that what was would never be again. But the other part, the big part, was because my thoughts kept coming back to her lying on the cabin floor, a bullet hole in her chest, dead.