Jack is bathed in sweat and grunge. He never stank this bad in his life, can’t even recall the last time he bathed. And they walk, navigating down the stream. Every bend of knee and lift of foot is becoming a struggle. Jack knows he’s dehydrated. He can feel the dryness in his mouth, and the parching of his body. At least the stream water feels cool on his feet. Moreover, he’s deficient in salts, minerals. Electrolytes. He looks down at the stream of water. It is moving along fast and seems quite clear and fresh.

He asks Matías, “How safe do you think this water is for human consumption?”

Limping along, Matías is smoking a cigarette. He says, “If the amoebas don’t wreck your insides, someone else’s insides will wreck them.”

“Someone else’s?” Jack says. “How’s that?”

“Somewhere, this stream is connected to a village or farm or both. Regardless of distance, people are using this stream for bathing, washing. Remember the cocaine paste. They dumped the waste from what we made into the river that ran by the farm.”

Jack just clenches his jaw and walks on. They keep moving, slower now. He feels a growing weakness in him, and panic builds in his mind. They have no idea where they are. How they will survive. Running his hands over his face, he wants to cry. Foot lifting, splashing in the water. Sound of ripples moving against them. The feel of sun beating down on their bodies, sapping their energy. Jack’s hamstrings feel tight, and the blisters on his hands sting. Hips and knees hurt but at the same time feel disconnected, as if they belong to some other body.

He had heeded his mother’s advice and run away, but way too late. Watched his wife die. Left everything behind. And here he is, searching for something. But what? The goddamned meaning of life? His ideas about life have been changing from the second he arrived in South America. Confirmed by his level of pain. Though he keeps telling himself he should give up, that he’s had enough. And though he wants more than anything to quit, he doesn’t.

Matías just limps and walks. Smokes. Glances up at the sun. He seems to have a hidden source of cigarettes, a never-ending pack. Never out of breath. Maybe that’s what Jack has missed out on all these years: cigarettes. Maybe those old Camel ads were true after all—maybe they actually keep a person fit for surviving in a jungle.

Shit, he’s going mad. Losing his grip. He didn’t think it would be quite this easy. He has built companies up from nothing, saved others from bankruptcy. He can do this. But then, he never even took the stairs at work. Always an elevator. Pushing buttons. The easy route. Now look at him. Pathetic.