My return message reads:
We’ll come home tomorrow night, I promise. Everything’s fine. Te amo.
Seconds after my head hits the folded blanket I’m using for a pillow, my phone buzzes again. My message has failed to go through; evidently the incoming signal is stronger than the outgoing. I set an alarm and resign myself to the early hour, so I can try to resend the text before we leave the bunkhouse and its isolated, if weak signal.
If he doesn’t hear from me soon, my father willloseit.
46 HOURS EARLIER
MADDIE
My tent is still dark when my brother shakes me awake. I grumble and roll over, but Ryan won’t be ignored. “Wake up, Maddie! We have to go!”
“What?” I sit up, adrenaline driving my heart at a crazy speed, and my knee knocks over a half-empty bottle of water. “It’s the middle of the night. What’s wrong?”
“The sun will be up in a few minutes. Come on! They’re going to leave without us.”
“Who?”
“There’s a cocaine manufacturing ... facility—or whatever—about an hour from here. Some of the hikers are going to see a demonstration, and I thought we could—”
“This is about sightseeing? Wait, isn’t thatincrediblyillegal?”
“Nico says it’s just a gimmick for tourists.” Ryan grabs my backpack and digs around inside it, no doubt making sure I have plenty of food and water. “Everyone’ll probablybe wrist deep in powdered sugar. It’ll be hilarious!”
I snatch my bag from him. “It’ll be exploiting a stereotype.”
“Come on.” Ryan grins at me and stuffs another bottle of water into my pack. “Youoweme a picture of you with powdered sugar caked beneath your nose, after you stole my funnel cake at the fair andIgot blamed foryourdiabetic shock.”
“I was seven! And I didn’t steal it. You gave me half.” Because I’d begged, and he never could say no to his little sister. Ryan has looked out for me ever since that day, even when that meant giving up sweets to keep from tempting me. Even though I’ve had several drinks right in front of him since we got to Colombia.
“Fine.” I throw back the corner of my sleeping bag and crawl out of it. His grin is contagious, and I’ve hardly seen him since we got off the plane. “One picture. But you can’t post it.”
I pull my hair into a ponytail, then use a camping wipe to clean my face and armpits. When I emerge from my tent carrying my backpack, Ryan and two of the bros are waiting for me, along with the six other tourists who got up in time to see the gimmicky demonstration before breakfast. The campsite feels eerily quiet—almost dead—as we set off through the jungle on a narrow, well-worn trail, leaving everyone else asleep in their tents.
Not gonna lie. I wish I were still sleeping too.
Two protein bars into the excursion, I remember to check my insulin pump. I blame the lapse on the disorienting wakeup call.
“How’s it look?” Ryan asks.
“My blood sugar’s fine. But ...” Guilt washes over me. I should have checked before I even left my tent. “Um ... my insulin vial is gone. It must have fallen out of my bag.”
Ryan groans. “What’s left in the pump?”
“About an eighth of the reserve.”
He exhales heavily. “What is that, a few hours’ worth?”
“A little more, maybe. I’m sorry! I was going to change the infusion set this morning, but I got distracted by the field trip.”
Everyone has stopped hiking to listen, and Ihatebeing stared at.
“You go ahead,” I tell Ryan. “I’ll find my insulin, and I’ll see you after the demonstration.” I start to head for the bunkhouse, but he grabs my arm.
“Maddie, if you can’t find that vial, we have to go back to Cartagena now and call in a refill.”
He’s right. I havemaybehalf a day’s supply left in the pump. But I really want to see the ruins, and I reallydon’twant to be the reason the rest of our group has to miss it.
