“Distraction? Right. Okay, I’ll tell him our sloth friend is thirsty and hungry. I think he’ll go for it. He likes creatures. I, mean, I never heard him call one a ‘lovebug,’ but . . .”

“Dammit, Zheena!”

“Okay, okay.”

She shouted something in Spanish. I couldn’t see what was happening, what with my face buried in the chest of Camila and all.

“He’s walking to the supply bag. Go! Now!”

I bit down on the hilt of the knife as hard as I could and slowly began to pull—three inches, six inches—until the entire knife was out.

“Ged off!”

Camila didn’t move, staring curiously at the seven-inch bowie knife angling out from my mouth.

I shook, trying to get Camila to fall off me.

“You have fifteen seconds,” Gina said. “Maybe less.”

“Ged her od me!”

I was biting down so hard on the knife that I felt a crack in one of my back teeth.

“Camila! Camila!” Gina said, softly. “Come here. Come see me.”

Camila’s head turned. I leaned as far toward Gina as I could.

“Come on, come on. Come see me.”

The first set of Camila’s claws released from my shoulder. Then the second. I felt her weight transfer, then she was gone.

I glanced up. The knife was hidden behind the pole, but if Benecio looked in my direction he would notice something was amiss. Fortunately, he was crouched near a bag in the middle of the village.

I had a few precious seconds to get the knife into one of my hands and cut through the zip-cuffs.

I pulled my feet in and spread my legs as wide as they would go. Because my ankles were restrained and the six-inch pole was in my crotch, my butterfly was restricted. My right knee was flared out a foot and a half and raised eight inches off the ground.

I leaned my head around the side of the pole and dangled the knife over my leg. If I dropped it and it fell between my legs, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to pick it up with my hands.

I let go with my teeth. The tip of the blade hit my thigh, then the hilt fell between my legs. I squeezed my legs closed, securing the blade upright between my thighs.

I slid my arms down the pole and angled my hands down. It was tough, but I was able to squeeze the blade between my fingers. I worked the blade up until I had the hilt of the blade in my left hand.

Angling the knife up as severely as possible, I pressed the black plastic loop around my right wrist against its serrated blade and moved it back and forth.

“He’s still looking in the bag,” Gina said.

Back, forth, back, forth.

“Put it away!” she blurted. “Bill and the soldiers are coming back.”