“He’s calling up the river,” I say quickly.
“Run, Condesa,” Manuel says.
“You can’t fight them both!”
He shoots me a look of such withering scorn, it almost knocks me sideways. The caimán charges, heading straight for me. I whip around, my pack swinging wide. The creature follows, snapping her jaws, snarling at my heels as I race into the jungle. I dart around fallen logs, shoving vines out of the way, not caring what I touch. I glance over my shoulder. The beast struggles to navigate the dense jungle floor, slowing down. There are rocks and decaying timber clogging the path.
I stop and turn, breathing hard, protected by the immense trunks surrounding me. The sound of her frustrated snarls echoes in my ears. I’m trapped here, vulnerable to attack by other predators lurking in the gloom. My dagger! I reach into my pack, rummaging, until my finger nicks the sharp blade.
“Damn it,” I mutter as I pull my weapon from my bag. I clench the handle tightly, ignoring the blood dripping down my index finger. My ears strain to hear anything ominous, but it’s nearly impossible. I’ve forgotten how loud the jungle is, the constant thrum of activity and life, bursting and straining like a bird clamoring against its cage, desperate for freedom.
“Condesa,” someone says, from my left.
I drop the dagger with a sharp scream.
Manuel rolls his eyes and bends to scoop up the weapon. His tunic is stained red.
“You’re hurt.” I step toward him, but he waves me off.
“It’s not my blood—”
Another loud snarl comes from the direction of the female caimán.
Manuel takes my hand and leads me away from the sound. With his other, he uses his machete to clear a path. I follow, one miserable step at a time. The ground transforms into a muddy sludge, hard to walk through. I don’t know how Manuel knows where we’re going. Nothing is visible from above; the tangled branches are too thick with knots and hanging vines.
We walk for hours, until my legs scream with fatigue. Until the wounds across my shoulders protest every step, every inch of movement. My boots are sodden, and the bottom of my feet scream in protest. My blisters are back, probably bursting, the whole lot of them. I want to ask Manuel to stop, but I recognize the set of his shoulders, the determined strides to push on. A reminder that we aren’t safe. There’s no stopping to eat, but we do drink our fill of rainwater.
Manuel stops at last. “We need to set up camp.”
“Are we lost?”
His shoulders sag. “Maybe—none of this looks familiar. It’s best we stop for the night, and I can reassess in the morning.”
“How can I help?”
“It’s my problem, not yours.”
“Pardon me, but I think your current problems are mine also.” I nudge my shoulder against his. “Let me help. I can pay attention to our surroundings—”
“Wait. Youaren’tpaying attention?”
“Better attention,” I add quickly. “I’ll be careful to remember any funny-looking trees we walk by.” I let out a crack of grim laughter. “I mean, theyalllook funny, I guess.”
Manuel looks like he’s trying not laugh. “Just help me set up camp.”
“That I can do,” I say.
We find two trees the right distance apart to hang the hammock. Neither of us has eaten, and I think our stomachs are competing to see which is the loudest and most annoying.
Mine is currently winning.
Once our shelter is secure, Manuel looks over at me with an expression I’ve learned means:Pay attention to what I’m about to teach you.“Come on, Condesa,” he says. “Time to learn how to fish.”
My stomach drops. “We’re heading back to the river?”
“There’s a small stream nearby.” He pauses. “Can’t you hear it?”
I close my eyes and attempt to hear the sound of water. But the only noises clogging my senses are from the howling monkeys and hooting owls. Overhead, the canopy sweats; water plops onto the top of my head. I don’t think I’ve been completely dry since arriving.
