Tuesday morning, she left the hospital for good. Turned away from their protests and waited wordlessly as they taped the incision, removed the IV, and wound a bright blue bandage around her arm.
“You’re going to die out there,” Brian had said. Yelled it at her, actually, as she walked to her gate with only one small carry on.
Three connections and thirty-six hours later, she was on the boat, feeling the moist jungle air upon her like a salve.
Pacon piloted the craft up the curling vein of the Amazon without looking. Overhead, the skies were untroubled and everywhere around she heard the twitter, squawk and song of undiscovered birds. Maybe she would die out here. It was not such a bad place.
As if he had heard her, Pacon spoke. “You make better soon,” he said, gesturing upriver. “Kachiri she bring the best tea.”
She felt better already.
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