The humidity isn’t pressing in on me. I’m not surrounded by banana trees and assailed by the sound of monkeys screeching. The late-afternoon sun isn’t trying to attack my exposed skin, and I’m not calm in the face of these extenuating circumstances, trying to hold on to all my hydration in this extreme heat.

But I am calm, and I am in a jungle. Rather, in a bar near one.

Too near for my comfort.

Like many women who’ve been tempted to leave their homes behind in search of something elusive, some sense of recklessness overpowering them, taking hold of their lives, I, too, have been led astray by a man.

So I am here now in this Lombok bar that has appeared out of nowhere, surrounded by lush trees. The last stretch of wilderness before it opens up to an ugly mining village, which leads to the main road heading into an ugly mine. In the heart of this godforsaken island, one of many in Indonesia.

Right now, I’m watching a group of mercenaries who have bonded over shit beer and are now drinking buddies. Do they know the man who has painted the target on my back? I think it’s likely.

I keep my head down and watch them under the brim of my hat. I’m dressed as any other tourist, but that doesn’t stop the locals from throwing disgusted glances in the direction of my sundress. I am as disgusted as they are, so I understand. Baby blue isn’t my color, and the garment simultaneously provides too much coverage and somehow not enough in this sweltering heat.

I’m trying to fit in, but this dress is absurd.

“You stay here, miss?” the young server asks. She’s wearing jeans in this heat. Jeans. Her cotton top is long-sleeved, and a pretty pink headscarf covers her hair. This may be why I look so out of place. Lombok isn’t Bali in a lot of ways. Indonesia is a Muslim-majority country made up of thousands of islands, little nooks where tourists can get buck wild, separatists can plot, outlaws can hide in plain sight, and locals get on with their lives.

The heat must be getting to me because I completely forget the server is still there, expecting an answer.

“Just waiting for someone,” I say. “Is it always this busy in here?”

She shakes her head and clears a nearby table. Shoots concerned looks over at the group of men who are making no attempts to be quiet or blend in.

A sunburned man walks in the front door and heads straight for me. He sits down beside me at my table and takes my hand, raising it to brush his lips over my knuckles.