Withering Hope

He raises an eyebrow. "I drove you to the mansion on a number of occasions, and waited for you there until you were ready to go. That gave Maggie and the rest of the staff plenty of time to fill me in on… things."

"People talked about us?"

"Yeah… Maggie said she always thought of you as siblings, didn't expect the two of you to be a couple."

"I wish Maggie had told me that." Many people told me that, but Maggie is someone I listen to, having raised Chris and me. I wonder if she ever told Chris. I wonder if he had second thoughts about us when his friends told him what my friends told me: that we seem to love each other like a brother and sister. And most of all I wonder if, in the months I've been gone, he may have found someone else.

I pray that he did.

"Plenty of birds flying around." I point to the sky as Tristan flexes the string of the bow, indicating that he can shoot. Shy sunrays garland the trees, making the green appear so vivid it ricochets from the shiny texture. Tatters of light hang on the lower branches, guiding our steps as we venture outside. "Won't have to wait long for our meal. Use your perfect aim on one of those unsuspecting birds, and then while I cook it, you can get rid of the jaguar body."

Tristan grins, looking up at the multitude of birds. "Guess we're lucky today."

But the last of our luck evaporates less than two weeks later. Weeks in which we fall blissfully into each other's arms every night. I love him with a scintillating intensity that grows every day. I never knew love could be like this. But I suppose this only happens when you connect at a level so deep and powerful it casts everything before it into meaninglessness. A connection built with spoken and unspoken words alike.

During these weeks, we fight the jungle during daylight. It seems more determined than ever to defeat us. Fresh holes appear in the fence every day, and our water baskets and wood supply are trashed each night—all signs the female jaguar has more than the one cub we killed. Judging by the paw prints, she has three others. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, though. The water has receded to a level where we can almost walk through it, and Tristan has started making serious plans about our trip into the wild in search of civilization. We stop our daily poem exchange. Survival requires our full attention. Every free minute we brainstorm about potential dangers on the trip back, and what we can do to prepare for them. We're practicing building basic shelters. We've been lucky with the plane, but when we leave, we'll have to build every night a shelter strong enough to keep us safe from beasts. We also try to collect as much animal fat as we can. Torches will be indispensable out there. At the same time, we double our efforts to secure the fence, and even set poison food traps for the jaguars, but they are too smart to touch them. We just need to fend them off for another few weeks, then we'll be ready to go.

However, our downfall doesn't come, as we feared, from the jaguars.

"You haven't eaten anything," I exclaim after I finish devouring my bird leg and two roots. I was starving today, and my portion hasn't done much to satisfy my hunger. I lean back, propping my elbows on the rough bark of the trunk that serves as our eating place. My muscles are sore from building shelter after shelter today. We've set a new record, building the simplest shelter in about ten minutes. It's an emergency shelter in case it rains unexpectedly. Tristan hasn't touched his food at all. He's staring at it as if the mere sight makes him sick.

"No, I'm not hungry."

"But we haven't eaten all day. You need your strength."

"I don't feel like eating. I guess I'm just exhausted. You can have my portion, you're still hungry."

He pushes his leaf plate in my direction. I catch his hand, and squeeze it. It feels cold and weak, and that scares me. "Go to sleep. I'll be next to you in a minute. You'll get better tomorrow." I watch him drag himself up the airstairs and inside the plane. I'm not hungry anymore.

He doesn't get better. First thing in the morning, he throws up. His body has a slight tremor to it as I help him sit on the steps. He's covered in cold sweat.

"Can it be from something you ate the day before yesterday? No, it can't be. We've been eating the same food."

"I don't know." He presses his palms on the sides of his head, his elbows resting on his knees. "I was throwing up yesterday, too."

"What?" I ask, alarmed. "When? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to worry you."

I hug him to my chest, tasting bile at the back of my throat. This close, I feel like every tremor of his is mine, and they fill me with a debilitating fear.

"What do you think it is?"

"Some kind of disease. Maybe from mosquitoes, maybe from some kind of bacteria in the food or water."

"That can't be," I say, almost like a plea. "Why I am not sick then?"

"Our immune systems aren't identical. Even if what we eat and drink is."

Something inside me crumbles—with the speed of the lightning. And its intensity too. But I force my voice to stay steady when I say, "Stay inside today and rest, okay?" He doesn't even attempt to argue; that worries me like nothing else. The moment he's out of sight, tears spill down my cheeks. This can't be happening. Not now. Not when we're so close to leaving this place. Not when we're so close to being safe. Though I have a million things to do, I go inside every half hour to help him drink water and check on him. He's sleeping most of the time, his body temperature higher every time I put my hand to his forehead. As the sun is about to set I grill some roots. When I walk inside the plane to take some to Tristan, he's gone.

I blink, spinning around, taking in every inch of the cabin. The muscles in my legs tighten as I make my way to the cockpit. He isn't there, either. I stand on the edge of the door, gripping the edges, my knuckles white. I was less than ten feet away from the bottom of the airstairs. I should have heard him leave. But did he leave? His pocketknife, bow, and arrows are still propped on the airstairs, where they've been the whole day, which means he's unarmed. The thought of him wandering in the rainforest without anything to defend himself gives me chest pains. I stand on my toes, scanning the space outside the fence. Not very far from the makeshift gate of the fence, I see Tristan, crawling more than walking. Stumbling. I run toward him, picking up my own bow and arrows in the process.

When I reach him I stand in front of him, blocking his way. "Tristan, what are you doing?"

His skin pale and sweaty, he answers, "I need to stay away from you. You might get sick too."

"No, I won't."