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blade against his wound. The sizzle of skin, like a frying egg, hits the air, and then the smell of
burning flesh. I gag, and press the blade harder, because I don t know how this shit works. I don t
know how long I need to leave it, or if I even did this right.
Mendoza s gone limp. He didn t even scream, which is pretty badass of him. I pull the knife away
and study the wound. There s a big, blistering mark where I pressed the knife, but the wound is
ragged on one side and the knife I have is tiny.
I think I m going to have to cauterize it twice. I m so sorry. It s the knife. It s so small.
He doesn t answer me.
Panic hammers my heart, and I shove the tiny knife back into the coals of the fire and then bend
over Mendoza. Rafe?
He s still breathing. Passed out, then, either from blood loss or pain. Or both. Well, that makes
this easier for him. I finish heating the knife and press it to his wound again, wincing only a little this
time as it cauterizes his flesh. The skin is blistered and purpled, but it s sealed. With that, I take my
shirt off, wet a clean corner, and bathe away the dirt and blood from the rest of his skin. Once his
back is cleaned, I roll him onto his side and examine his eye, peeling back the bandages. It looks
awful, worse than before, and that worries me. We don t have antibiotics, but we have water
purifiers now, at least, so I can at least bathe it with clean water.
Over the next few hours, while Rafe sleeps, I keep myself busy around camp. It s either that or go
crazy with worry. I keep the fire going, hauling in more wood every time I venture out. If the wood s
wet, I create a pile on the other side of the fire, hoping that the heat will eventually dry it out more. I
get more water, use the tablets, and wash Rafe s eye and rebandage it. I wash his other wounds, too,
since he s covered in scrapes and scratches. I clean up the cave, get fresh leaves for a bed, and gather
things that look useful. I find a sturdy vine hanging from a tree, and after I make sure it s not a snake, I
bring it back with me. Since it s not long enough, I get more vines, and then spend a good hour or two
braiding my finds together to make a makeshift rope.
I also find wood that will make a decent spear, and make a few more of those. You can never
have too many weapons in the jungle, and I keep seeing wild animals. Night is coming on, and the fire
won t keep a determined predator away.
Which means I need to get rid of the body.
That takes up a good chunk of the afternoon. I keep Afonso facedown so I don t have to see what
happened. Rafe said it wasn t good, and I trust him. I tie the rope around his arm and loop it around
my torso like a harness so I can drag him through the jungle, but he s heavy, so I don t make it as far
as I want. I have to settle for letting the body slide off of a rocky precipice and into jungle vines
below. Good enough. I give the body a salute. Not gonna miss you, Afonso.
Rafe wakes up at sunset, when I ve stoked up the fire and put another damp, hissing log onto the
flames. He groans and cusses in Spanish.
I immediately go to his side, bringing the bottle of water with me. How are you feeling? I want
to kiss him all over his banged-up face for rejoining the land of the living, because I don t know what
I d do if he went to sleep and just never woke up again.
Like hell, he says, and tries to sit up.
Stay off it if you can, I tell him, pushing a hand against his shoulder. Give it time to heal.
We re not going anywhere tonight.
He nods and lies back on his side again, then touches the bandages on his face. Eye feels like
hell, too.
I cleaned it while you were out, I tell him. Sorry if I made it worse.
Is it bad?
Let s just say you re not going to win any beauty contests with that look.
He nods.
I pass him the water bottle.
He takes a small sip, then tries to pass it back to me.
Drink the whole thing, I tell him. You need to replace the blood you ve lost and I ve been
drinking water all afternoon. River water, but hey. Today it didn t rain too much, and that means the
wood was drier than usual, so I ll take it.
I should get up and get rid of the body
Taken care of, I tell him, and I feel a little bit of pride at the surprise on his face. I m not
totally helpless you know.
I think you re pretty great, actually. How s the wrist?
I stupidly preen under those words and take the water bottle back from him when he finishes
drinking, then offer him a fruit. It actually doesn t hurt as much. He grunts in what I presume to be
happiness. I m not sure if we should save the snake or eat it. How much longer do you think we ll
be . . . out here?
He props up on an elbow. We should eat the meat before it goes bad. And as for us, we ll go up
the river tomorrow. See if we can find anyone else.
I nod and break the cooked snake in half and offer him part. We both choke it down, and then it
gets quiet again. I m guessing Mendoza s not in a talky mood, what with passing out and cauterized
wounds and all, but I desperately need conversation after a day of being in my own head.
So, I say brightly. Do you want to play another round of our game?
He scrubs a hand down his face, then crooks his elbow to act as a pillow. I guess. He sounds
tired.
All right, I ll start. I stir the fire, contemplating what to talk about. Nothing sexual, because the
last thing we need is more tension in camp. We re too exhausted and Mendoza s lost too much blood.
I study my awful, awful-looking hands. They re upraised with welts from bugs. The blisters are puffy
and dark on three of my fingertips, and one burst earlier, which means an ugly scab. There s
scratches, my nails are ragged, and my one pinky is bloated and terrible. My hand modeling days are
over, at least for the next year or two. Even the smallest imperfections can cost jobs. I once lost a job
because they didn t like the way my nail beds looked.
Thinking about hand modeling makes me think about Rose. That s an easy subject, then. I curl my
legs under me and move closer to the fire. When I was in third grade, I moved to a new school, I
tell Mendoza. Back then, my hair wasn t this weird brown, but blond. I was very blond, and very
pale. I moved to California, and I didn t know anyone. And kids are mean to people that are different,
you know? Anyhow, back then, my eyes the heterochromia really stood out. The kids picked on
me, called me names, you name it.
Kids are shitty.
I dug my toes in the dirt of the cave. Kids are kids. A week or two passed, and I started making
up illnesses to avoid class. I d spend half the day lying down in the nurse s office just to avoid
people. And one day, while at the nurse s office, in walks the prettiest girl with blond hair and the
same pink shirt I was wearing. Her name was Rose, and she had to go to the nurse s office daily to
get her insulin pump monitored. I smile at the memory. She sits next to me, and asks why my eyes
are so weird. I tell her that I was born that way. Then she shows me her insulin pump, and says she
was born different, too. She then declares that I m going to be her new best friend. And after that,
people weren t shitty to me, because they loved Rose. And if Rose liked someone, then she was
okay. My eyes fill with tears. Rose is the one that got me into hand modeling, you know. She told
them they had to have some sort of work for me, and no one s ever able to tell Rose no. Turned out
someone had a cancellation, and I filled in. The rest was history.
Rafe s silent.
I sniff and give a shaky laugh. You pass out on me again?
No. Just thinking.
About what you re going to tell me? What terrible secrets? I tease. You want to tell me about
your childhood?
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