Goose bumps flare up and down my arms. Another scream, and the sound is heartbreaking, full of suffering and terror and defeat. There’s a menacing growl and then leaves stirring. My feet can’t take me back to the sandbank fast enough, the vines dragging behind me like the tail of an anaconda.
When I emerge from the tree line, the sky blazes orange gold, a heavenly bonfire for the gods. I drop the vines and the machete onto the sand and clap my hands over my ears to block out the eternal song of the jungle: rustling leaves, hoots, high trills, coughing grunts, and croaks.
A soft tickle creeps along the back of my right hand. Slowly, I lower my arm to inspect the sensation. A four-inch-long murky-green scorpion clings to my skin, spiral tail quivering. I fling my hand, screaming, and it snaps into the air. I squeeze my eyes shut as another rustling noise grows louder, someone crashing out from beneath the jungle canopy.
Strong arms grip my hands and shake me.
“Stop screaming,” Manuel says. “Condesa! What’s wrong?”
I reopen my eyes, and his mud-splattered face is inches from mine, dark eyes deep pools of calm water. “S-scorpion.”
“Where were you bit?” he asks, releasing me. “Show me.”
“I wasn’t, I don’t think.” I thrust my hand toward him, and he takes it into his, and warmth spreads to every inch of my skin. He turns over my palm, carefully examining the flesh.
“You’re fine.” He releases my hand, and then scoops up an enormous speckled egg from the ground, which he gives to me, and then picks up six bamboo stalks, eight segments high each. “I’m going to build shelter before it gets dark, come on.”
I trudge behind him, cradling the egg, my pack swaying behind me. He finds two trees close together and beckons me closer with the crook of his finger. “Hammock and net.” I awkwardly wrest it from within my bag and toss the canvas bundle to him. He sets up the hammock and then secures one of the bamboo stalks above it.
“Stay here,” he says. “You can put the egg in the hammock if you’re tired of carrying it.”
But I’m not. It seems bizarre to be holding something so fragile in such a dangerous place. Manuel returns carrying the bundle of vines and the machete and proceeds to attach the rest of the stalks to the one above the gently swaying hammock, forming a kind of roof with the bed underneath. He cuts large palm fronds and layers several over the bamboo, then he finally sets the mosquito net over all the greenery. Layers of protection from the jungle.
“Cozy,” I say.
He holds out his hand for the egg. “Hungry?”
The poor little creature. “What’s inside?”
“Ostrich.”
I bite my lip, and he snorts. When my stomach grumbles, I pass the egg to him and he sets it down onto the floor. Then he lops off a segment of bamboo and hands it to me. I drink the water in one long gulp while he uses his machete to scrape the sides of another stalk until there’s a small pile of tinder.
“Will you grab the pan from my bag?” He jerks his chin in the direction of the shelter, where the pack is nestled against a tree trunk. I march over, watching where I step. The pan is near the bottom. I yank it out and turn around in time to catch the soft wisps of smoke curling from the scraped-up bamboo. I hand over the pan and Manuel cracks the giant egg into it, and the food slowly cooks above the fire.
My stomach growls, demanding to be fed. The size of the egg can feed ten people, but I swear I might finish it off by myself. I haven’t eaten anything since that one banana and the handful of nuts. Neither has he, for that matter. Manuel stomps out the fire once the food is done cooking, and we eat the egg using chopped bamboo stalks as makeshift spoons. It’s plain but somehow delicious, and in moments there’s nothing left but an empty pan, my stomach finally full. We put everything away into our bags and duck under the shelter.
He and I will be sharing a hammock.
I flush to the roots of my hair, but Manuel doesn’t notice. He checks the bed for any creeping insects and then motions for me to get in. Once I’m in, he settles into the opposite end, booted feet dangling off the edge and away from my face. I position mine the same way, the hammock swinging wildly as we try to get comfortable.
But that’s impossible. The long line of Manuel’s body is pressed against mine and I’m suddenly thankful for the darkness hiding my red cheeks. His matter-of-fact demeanor helps. Everything is about survival with him, and sleeping above the ground is part of that. His heart’s probably a steady drum in his chest while mine dances against my ribs.
“Sleep, Condesa,” he says gruffly.
I stare up at the canopy of tight leaves. “I have a name.”
“Yes, I know.”
Neither of us says a word, but I know he’s still awake. It’s pitch black underneath the palm fronds and maybe that’s why I say what I do. “Why didn’t you say goodbye?”
Manuel remains quiet. The words he won’t say too loud in this shelter. I lie thinking, remembering that night, remembering how he’d been the one to pull me behind that tree. I’d been laughing, and he’d kissed me before I’d stopped. I remember laughing still as his lips moved earnestly against mine, until it was no longer funny. Until I could no longer feel the ground beneath my feet. The way he’d looked at me after, as if I were the best thing he’d ever seen in his whole life.
How can anyone forget something like that?
All day he’s kept me at arm’s distance. No private jokes, or reminiscing about our childhood. Calling me by my title, and not my name. Treating me as a sovereign and not a friend. Manuel doesn’t want me poking at that wall he’s erected, trying to get through. Maybe he’s afraid of what I’ll find on the other side.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking about, it’s not helpful,” he says at last, and in a voice that brooks no argument.
