by Amanda Heger
“Fucking Fruit Loops.” She suddenly felt less nostalgic for the bright, sugary rings.
“Raise your arm. Over your head.” Felipe appeared in front of her, one hand hanging on to Chowmey and the other jerking over his head in demonstration. He still hadn’t shaved, and his eyes seemed darker somehow. “Annie! ¡Levanté!” A deep crease formed between his eyebrows, and she stared at him, unmoving. He grabbed her wrist and held it high.
Blood trickled to her elbow, leaving curling red ribbons along her forearm. Chowmey’s small hand found her intact fingers and squeezed.
“I’m okay.” She took a deep breath and loosened her locked knees.
Felipe turned to Chowmey, keeping hold of Annie’s arm. “Tráeme una silla.” The girl took off toward the house. “Fruit loops?” Felipe’s eyebrows crept up his forehead.
“Huh?” Her eyes darted to the shadow of dark stubble along his jawline, and she thought about feeling its roughness against her skin. Get it together. She pulled her gaze to the ground. “A bird. It bit me, I mean. A toucan. This guy kept showing it to me, and it looked sick. Then it bit me.”
The low drag of plastic on dirt told her the chair had arrived. As soon as Chowmey put it behind her, Annie fell into it, not trusting her knees to remain steady.
Marisol ran toward them, a bag in one hand. “Chowmey said you needed this. ¿Qué pasó?”
“I got bit,” Annie said.
“Fruit loops,” Felipe interjected, as if this explained everything.
Marisol pulled her chin to her chest, eyebrows raised.
“This guy showed up with a toucan in a backpack.” Annie left out the part about Chowmey bringing the man to her. “He kept saying, ‘Is nice, is nice.’ But the stupid bird looked sick, so I thought maybe he was bringing it to you guys. Ouch!” She tried to jerk her hand away, but Felipe held tightly as he dumped saline solution into her wound.
Marisol and Felipe cocked their heads in identical expressions of skepticism. Chowmey slipped her little hand into Annie’s.
“What? It’s not like there are vets out here, right?”
“You are lucky you still have a finger.” Felipe shook his head. “And you need a stitch.”
“He was trying to sell the bird to you,” Marisol said.
“Sell it? What would I do with a toucan?” She whipped her head toward Felipe. “I need a stitch? Only one? How do you know?” She managed to slip his grip and bring her hand to eye level.
With a sigh, he grabbed her palm and pulled it skyward once more. “I think, yes. If you hold still, I will have a better idea.”
She froze at the sharpness edging his voice.
“The fingers move and stretch,” he said. “It is harder for a wound like this to close on its own. It is deep.” He stooped to look her in the eye, and for a moment she expected that full, send-the-sky-spinning smile. But his lips held a tight line. “Is that sufficient for your medical reports?” he asked, tilting his head in the direction of her journal, forgotten and wide open in the dirt at Marisol’s feet. The last page—all about him—was practically public domain.
Annie’s chest tightened. She shifted in her seat and gripped her knee with her free hand, blurting out the first idea that came to her. “I want to watch. The stitches, I mean.” She tried to keep her voice even, as if the needle he threaded wasn’t about to sew her up like a ripped doll.
Marisol picked up the journal, her eyes sparkling as they flicked over the open page. “I will go get ready for the clinic.” She dropped the closed notebook next to Annie with a wink and left, pulling Chowmey behind her.
“Are you sure?” Felipe asked.
“What?”
“You want to see the stitches?”
“Oh. Sure.” She swallowed. “Learning opportunity and everything.”
“Okay,” he said. “Can you stand?”
She shot up, her arm still extended. Lightheaded, she swayed, then lurched straight into his chest. “Sorry.”
His right hand clasped her waist, steadying her. The throbbing in her finger became a faded memory. “You are going to sit,” he said.
She eased herself back into the plastic chair.
Felipe squatted in front of her. “I am going to numb your finger, yes?”
Annie squeezed her eyes shut and held out the mangled hand. The needle pierced her skin, and her fingertip went fat and numb. Hit with the weight of sudden guilt, her eyes flew open. “You shouldn’t use the supplies on me. What if we run out and you won’t have enough thread or whatever for someone who needs it?”
“You need it.” He pressed a finger against her fingernail. “Can you feel this?”
She shook her head.
“Ready?”
She muttered her assent, and he picked up the threaded needle. His eyelashes were thick and dark, and a single drop of sweat rolled from his temple to his cheek. He squinted a bit as he worked, bringing out those tiny lines around his eyes.
“Finished.” He rolled back on his heels and looked at her. “Did you watch?”
“No.”
He sighed. “No more touching strange animals, yes?”
She nodded, but panic swarmed her. “Do you think I need a rabies shot? I got the two pre-bite shots at the student health center, but I think you’re supposed to get more if you get bit by something.” What are the symptoms of rabies? Fear of water. She pictured the river, rolling waves of brown and green. Not afraid…yet.
“No, you do not need a rabies shot.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. You get rabies from mammals.”
“You’re positive?”
He packed up the supplies, separating the used gauze and needle from the others. “Sí.” He handed her a thin purple surgical glove. “Keep your finger covered today and tomorrow. Maybe the day after too. Chowmey can help you with the mosquito nets.”
“Okay.” A stray curl clung to her forehead, and she blew at it to no avail.
Felipe reached forward as if to brush it away. But he pulled his hand back with a start, leaving the clump of hair glued to her face. “Please do not be late for the clinic.”
Day Nine
Every step toward the next village took more of Felipe’s energy than the last. They were half an hour into the two-hour hike, and already his body begged for a break. But it wasn’t because of the sun searing his neck or the ninety-something percent humidity or the weight of the medical supplies on his back. It was the way Annie’s t-shirt hung off one shoulder. How the fine sheen of sweat made her skin reflect the sun.
He’d managed to avoid her for most of the last day, dodging her attempts at small talk and an invitation to play UNO. And last night, he’d curled up on the stupid, lumpy yoga mat and closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep when she came by to keep up the routine they’d started.
“Are you sure?” one of them would ask, one leg already in the hammock.
“Sí,” the other would insist, stretching out on the yoga mat, as if it were a luxurious king-sized mattress filled with the softest down imaginable.
But last night, he’d closed his eyes. And when she nudged him with her toe, he rolled toward the wall and waved her off. “It is fine.”
He peeled his stare away from Annie’s bare shoulder as Phillip’s booming voice exploded behind him. “Hey man, do you know?”
Felipe jumped. “What?”
“Why does everyone have the decorative gold tooth caps here? I mean, for a place that has so little dental care, there are a lot of people walking around with gold hearts on their incisors.”
The same reason it is impossible to look directly at your teeth, Barnyard Man. Vanity. As they side-stepped down the steep winding path, Felipe ducked under a clump of branches and searched for a diplomatic answer—one that wouldn’t piss off his mother and tank future Ahora donations from Phillip Jones, D.D.S.
“I think—” He looked over his shoulder at the blond man as he walked. But Felipe stumbled, groping for balance as his chest smac
ked into something solid.
Annie.
“Lo siento. I mean, sorry.”
“It’s okay, I—”
“Silence!” Juan had one arm raised—his machete arm—and the shiny metal glinted with sun and bits of decapitated plants.
Felipe’s muscles went rigid as muffled voices crept up the hill.
“What’s up man?” Phillip asked, his voice half a decibel lower than usual.
There was no time to answer or to shush the American man. Not before the gunshot rang out, echoing through the air and shaking every leaf and branch with the force of the sound.
Felipe flew to the ground, pushing Annie beneath him. Mud and damp grass clung to his mouth and cheeks, and sweat stung his eyes. Beneath him, she groaned.
“Are you okay?” he whispered against her ear. Her head bobbed once, and he shifted his weight to give her room to breathe. On his other side, Marisol lay belly to the dirt, her eyes darting. Phillip too. The entire group lay on the ground, except for Juan, who stood, his machete ready for action.
“Okay?” Felipe mouthed to his sister. She nodded, but her eyes were wide and brimming with fear.
Six bare feet appeared in Felipe’s line of vision as a band of ragged youths wearing discarded American rags moved toward their group. The leader stood tall and skinny with sharp elbows and knees. A long, shiny, slender rifle hung over his shoulder. He wore a pointed sneer and a red Nike t-shirt. Under the white logo, it proclaimed, “I Run Like a Girl.”
“Millonarios.” The boy’s smirk grew, consuming his entire face and showing off a jagged chip in his front tooth. He shoved around his friends and stepped close to Felipe. “You must pay to pass. Mucho.”
Felipe stood slowly, stepping in front of Annie and Marisol. “We do not have anything. We are doctors.” He took care to make his voice flat, as if he hadn’t noticed the firearm or the wild-eyed, drug-deprived expression the boy wore.
“If you are doctors, you have drogas.” The leader licked his lips as he turned to Juan. “Drop the knife.”
Felipe kept his face blank, but his mind raced through the supplies, trying to remember what drugs they had left and who carried them.
Annie.
When they had hiked out that morning, she’d carried the duffle with the pain killers. But now it lay strewn on the ground next to her backpack, an arm’s length away. Felipe sized the teens up, wondering if it was worth the risk to try to pass off a handful of antibiotics as narcotics, when Phillip pushed his way forward. Felipe pivoted, ready to shove the American man to the ground. The last thing they needed was some cowboy antagonizing a group of teenage junkies with firearms. But as Phillip’s yellow hair reflected the sun, recognition rushed the teenagers’ faces.
“Barnyard Boyfriend!” one of them called out. It sounded more like Barn Fiend.
“Uh, yeah. I mean sí. How about I give you guys an autograph and we call it a deal?” Phillip flashed them a brilliant smile. For a moment, Felipe hoped the teens would be blinded and the group could make their getaway.
The leader stared at Phillip, one eyebrow cocked and the other furrowed. He couldn’t have been older than sixteen, and the way his forehead crinkled made him look even younger. He could tell the boy didn’t understand Phillip’s offer, and Felipe started to translate as the American reached for his bag.
The cocking of the rifle cut him off.
“Do not move,” the boy ordered in Spanish, spittle clinging to his chin.
Felipe translated, and Phillip dropped his bag and drew both hands into the air. “Sorry, man. Sorry.”
The boy turned, bringing the barrel of the gun to rest against Felipe’s midsection. He forced his lungs to inflate even though the air tasted rotten in his mouth. “I will give you the drugs.” He kept his eyes trained on the boy’s face, afraid that looking at the rifle would mean losing his composure.
The kid pressed the weapon harder into Felipe’s gut. “Where are they?”
He shrugged. “I need to look for them. I am going to search the bags, yes?”
The boy looked to his cronies, but both stared blankly. “No,” he said. “I will look.” He pulled the gun away, and relief surged from Felipe’s neck to his fingertips.
Until the kid squatted next to Annie and jerked the end of the rifle in her direction. “Mira pretty Americana.”
• • •
Annie’s fingers shook as the boy sneered at her. He crouched close enough for her to make out the fine red lines in his eyes and the hint of a mustache shadowing his upper lip. At this distance, it was harder to conceal the Pink Stringer, but it would also be easier for her to strike. She clutched the fake pink tampon hard enough to make the veins in her hand strain against her skin.
“You want to be my barn fiend?” The boy pulled at the end of one of her frayed curls, then turned away to toss her backpack to one of his mute friends. The kid fumbled and dropped the bag, and the contents spilled everywhere. Bras, shirts, a few toiletries. Across the tiny clearing, the other boy picked up a supply pack and dumped it. Vials of vaccines clattered against one another as they fell to the ground, and every head turned toward the commotion.
Except Annie’s. She took a deep, shaky breath and jammed the electric gun into the leader’s side. Her thumb jammed against the black switch.
Nothing happened.
For a split second the world went too white, and the acrid taste of vomit climbed her throat as the boy turned to leer at her.
From her left, there was a shuffling and shifting on the ground, and then a clatter as Felipe launched himself on top of the kid. The rifle slid off the boy’s shoulder as they fell into a pile of limbs and dirt and angry Spanish.
Annie grabbed the gun as Juan held the other boys back with the machete. “Get out of here.” She could barely bring her voice above a whisper, and the weapon was heavier than she’d imagined. Rougher. The end of it kept sinking toward the ground as she stood. “Get out of here!” She found her voice this time, waving the gun wildly in the air. She’d never even shot a BB gun before, always too scared she would blind herself or slaughter an innocent squirrel. But now, here she stood, in the middle of nowhere, aiming a giant gun at a trio of teenagers like she was the last defender of the Alamo.
The two smaller boys took off into the trees, their bare feet smacking hard against the grass. Next to her, the boy in the Nike t-shirt scrambled away from Felipe, bloody and spitting. He glared at Annie one last time, then grabbed a handful of the things strewn on the ground before he followed his friends into the forest.
They’re gone.
She slid to the ground, and the rifle tumbled from her hands. Her vision narrowed, the edges of it turning a deep blue-black. Her entire existence felt precarious, and all of her muscles seemed too loose, like they were only attached to her body by the thin cover of her skin. There were words, but she couldn’t understand them. They were too muffled by the thumping of her heart in her ears and the rush of adrenaline leaving her body.
She tried to stand but couldn’t. She was being squeezed. Trapped. Back. They’re back. The words cartwheeled through her brain, even though a tiny, faraway voice told her the boys weren’t coming back. They’d be stupid to come back. But they are stupid. She pulled away, trying to breathe, but her arms stayed pinned to her sides by her attacker. She squirmed and fumbled until her fingers grasped the end of the Pink Stringer, and she found the nerve to jam it into her assailant’s thigh. She pushed the switch again, shoving it with every ounce of strength and desperation she could find.
Please work. Please work.
He stumbled and collapsed, freeing her arms and legs. Annie tore away, rushing up the hill, toward the boat, to safety.
The footsteps behind her grew louder, overtaking her before she could make it out of sight. “Mira, muchacha. Mira. Es Juan.”
She froze, her body soaked with sweat and her breath coming in shallow, raspy bursts. Juan came around to face her, his hands next to his face, palms to the sky. He spok
e again, but his words were very fast and very Spanish. Annie looked over her shoulder. Marisol and Phillip squatted next to a flattened Felipe, making half-hearted attempts to tug him to his feet. The teens were nowhere in sight.
Juan moved to her side. “You are okay?” He kept his hands high.
She rubbed her eyes, blinking back dirt and fear. “They’re gone?”
“Sí.” He took a step toward the group and motioned for her to walk ahead.
Annie slid a hand under her shirt and pulled it away from her skin. The shrink of her sweaty clothes against her body made it harder to breathe. As they walked closer, Felipe sat up, both hands clamped on his left thigh. The Pink Stringer sat an arm’s length away, half-buried in the mud.
Shit.
Felipe stood. “¿Qué diablos, Annie?” he asked through clenched teeth, his arms swept wide. “What were you thinking?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” The weight of what she’d done was still sinking in. “Are you okay? I panicked. I couldn’t see. I don’t—”
He shook his head and walked away, picking up the rifle from the ground.
“I think this one is yours.” Marisol held out a mud-soaked bra with one trembling hand.
Annie grabbed her friend and hugged her, squeezing as tightly as she could and sobbing into Marisol’s shoulder.
“Are you okay?” Annie asked.
Marisol nodded. “This has not happened in a long time.”
“It’s happened before?” Annie wiped her nose on her shirt sleeve as a flint of anger sparked inside her.
“Sometimes the people hear we are coming and set traps to steal drugs or money. It was in the papers you received. With the packing list.” Marisol’s voice wobbled and her features were all strained and tense, as if she expected Annie to lash out at her.
“I thought it was one of those things that never really happens. And I hate that you have to go through this. You’re doing so much good, risking so much, and people take advantage.”
