Sherry glanced through the door and saw that it contained a single cot and a bathroom. “This will be fine. You wouldn’t happen to have a drink, would you? I’d forgotten how hot this place gets.” She waved her hand against her throat like a fan.

“Of course. Follow me.” He led her to the middle door, which opened to a sizable living room and a kitchen beyond. The smell of kerosene filled her nostrils. Like her home eight years earlier. God, what are you doing to me? She plopped in a chair and waited for the father to bring her the glass of lemonade. Like the glass that had crumbled in her own hand eight years earlier. Dear God.

Afternoon cicadas were singing outside. It sounded like a death mass. She smiled at the priest and drew the cool drink past her lips.

“Thank you.”

He sat across from her and said, “My pleasure.”

She crossed her legs. “So, who told you about the attack on our mission?”

He shrugged. “The mission board, I suppose—five years ago when I first arrived.”

“Did they mention the plantation next to the mission?”

He nodded, his smile now softening so she could barely see his white teeth. “They said the bandits were most likely after the fields there. The way I understood it, the mission was simply in the way.” He looked out the window with a faraway stare. “From what the Indians have told me, I think that must be right. They wanted the plantation for their drugs and took the mission with it. That’s what happened from man’s perspective anyway. It’s hard to know what God had in mind.”

“And what have you heard about the plantation owners?” she asked, feeling sweat run down her blouse. “The Richtersons.”

“They were killed.” He looked at her. “As far as I was told, no one survived. In fact, I only learned of your survival from Helen, several years ago. I knew Helen’s husband. He was with some soldiers who came to our village in World War II. His leader killed a girl I knew very well. Nadia. Perhaps Helen told you about Nadia.”

“Yes, she’s told me the story.”

“I was there,” the father said. “Nadia was my friend.”

“I’m sorry.” Helen had asked her to read the book her husband had written about the episode, but she never had. “So the Indians told you Shannon was killed?” she asked. “They saw his body?”

“Most of what I have heard is hearsay. But, as far as I know, yes.” He smiled apologetically. “But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. Again, I’m terribly sorry.”

“It’s all right, Father. I’ve come to terms with my parents’ death.”

Father Teuwen eyed her carefully. “So if you don’t mind me asking, Sherry. Why have you come to the jungle after all these years?”