Withering Hope

"No," he says, gripping my thigh to keep my leg immobilized. "It's important to keep the injured part below the heart level."

"What now?" I ask.

Tristan runs his hand through his hair, not meeting my eyes. Panic swells in my chest at his silence. "Tristan?" I press. "How do we get the venom out?" I remember reading in a travelling guide never to suck out the poison from a venomous snakebite… or use a tourniquet to stop the venom from spreading. That could cause gangrene. In fact, the guide emphasized not to attempt anything and get to a medical unit as fast as possible, because venom gets into the bloodstream quickly. It seemed like sound advice when I read it. Now it seems a cruel joke. Still, I hold the hope that Tristan has learned some kind of emergency trick during his time in the Army. The desperation in his eyes tells the exact opposite.

"We can't," he says, and despite the fact that his voice appears calm, steady, I can hear cracks starting to tear at his confidence. "But maybe there is no poison."

"No poison?" I raise my voice, partly because a new wave of pain just seared through me, and partly because what he's saying is ridiculous. "Are you forgetting where we are? Even the damn frogs are poisonous here."

"Listen to me. When a poisonous snake strikes, it doesn't always release venom." His voice trembled when he spoke the first words but as he continues, it becomes smoother, almost official. He must have said this before, maybe to one of his comrades when they were on a mission. "But in case venom did enter your bloodstream, it's important that you remain calm so your heart rate doesn't speed up. That keeps the blood from circulating faster, thus spreading the venom faster."

"And I'm supposed to remain calm knowing this?"

"It's a protection measure, Aimee." His hand caresses my cheeks, and then he pulls me into an embrace. I press my cheek against his chest, losing myself in his arms. For a moment, I believe everything will be all right. Then the pain strikes again. I bite my lip hard to keep from screaming. Tristan's heartbeats are frantic—I don't want him to worry even more. "You most likely have no venom in your blood at all."

"You're not saying that just so I don't panic, are you?"

"No, it's true. That happened a couple of times when we were on missions." I want to believe him. I want to know what happened to those guys, but I'm afraid to ask. Even if they didn't die from the snake bite, chances are bad things happened to them anyway. And I don't want Tristan to think of those days again. I just pulled him out of his nightmares. My desperation to know is not worth losing his peace of mind. "I'm not worried about venom."

I lick my lips, and nod. He brings the alcohol bottle and starts cleaning the wound. He frowns, his eyes probing the bite on my leg, and my heart rate speeds up. He might not be worried about the venom, but he's worried about something.

"Can we still leave?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"That's out of question," he says. "You can't walk." Then he adds, "I could carry you."

"We'd be too slow. And easy prey." We both fall silent, probably thinking the same thing. We're easy prey here already. "I'll send the rescue team a message: We'll delay leaving for a few days until you recover."

I don't recover. My leg starts swelling in the first few hours, and I hardly sleep for fear I won't wake up or my leg will double in size in my sleep. Tristan doesn't sleep the entire night, just holding me in his arms, checking on my foot every now and again. It turns out the snakes didn't release venom when they bit me—perhaps they weren’t venomous at all. If they were, I'd be dead already. But something equally dangerous looms over me nonetheless.

Infection.

Infection was Tristan’s worry from the beginning. Since we have no antibiotic, there's no way to stop it from spreading. Disinfecting it with alcohol doesn't do much. The swelling is almost gone by the second morning, but the edges of the wound turn a stomach-churning shade of violet and yellow. Tristan put a bandage on it, and I wear a long dress so I don't see it, but hiding it doesn't make its effects any less noticeable. I can’t walk, even with the cane Tristan makes for me. I give up going out of the plane at all. Leaving to meet the rescue group is out of the question. Our best chance is to wait for them here. Except, that's not a good chance—not even a real one. The jaguars will finish us before our rescuers arrive.

They come inside our fence during the day now, too. There are four of them. We are forced to stay in the plane and keep the airstairs raised above the ground. Tristan

hunts from the edge of the door. He develops a clever system to retrieve his prey by binding a thin thread to the end of the arrow. After the speared animal drops to the ground, he pulls in the thread until the prey is in his hands. It doesn't work all the time because the movement catches the jaguars' attention, and sometimes they capture the animal before Tristan manages to pull it up to us. We remain hungry more often than not. We're also permanently thirsty because his system doesn't work to bring the water baskets closer to us, so we collect rain water by lining our old soda cans on the edge of the door and the elevated airstairs. Tristan tried shooting the jaguars, but they are smart. It’s as if they can tell the exact moment he releases the arrow, even if they appear to concentrate on something else—like eating our dinner—and get out of the way.

If we can make it until the rescue team arrives, they have guns and can take out the jaguars immediately. But two weeks is a long time to subsist on air and a very long time to resist with an infection this serious. Still, I cling to the hope that I will resist. But the hope withers, day by day.

On the fifth day after the bite, I realize just how unrealistic that hope is. Tristan is in the cockpit and I am alone in the cabin. I drag myself down the aisle toward my suitcase. I need to change my dress because I can’t stand the sight of the blood and pus on it. I do my best to hurry so I can get back to my seat before Tristan leaves the cockpit. He insists I don't move at all and would be beside himself if he saw me. But I need to move, otherwise I'll grow roots on my seat. Moving hurts like hell, though. I change my dress. The bandage on my foot catches my attention. I haven't looked at the wound in two days. Tristan won't let me, even when he changes the bandages. Biting my lips, I undo it and my heart stops as my eyes try to take in the horror. The image blurs, as tears fill my eyes and realization seeps in.

I will not get better.

I will not last until the rescue team arrives.

I cry out in rage at the unfairness of it all. Tears stream down my cheeks as my whole body starts shaking. I try to calm myself but fail. Why does it matter anymore?

When I hear noise from the cockpit, I remember why calming myself matters. I can't let Tristan see me like this. He must know how bad my wound is. That’s why he didn’t let me see it. But he must not know how devastated I am. I crawl back to my seat just as Tristan comes out of the cockpit. He doesn't walk my way, but remains at the door of the plane, crouching down with his back to me. I'm grateful I'm sitting in the second row with a row of seats between me and Tristan. It hides me from his view.

"I’ll try to get us some food," Tristan calls over his shoulder. "Maybe I'll get lucky."

"Okay," I say. His hunting will give me enough time to pull myself together. I wipe away my tears, but fresh ones burst. Why now? Why couldn't I have died when the plane crashed? Quickly, perhaps even painlessly. Before I became whole in a way I had never been before, only to lose everything. I shake my head, then hide it between my knees. I can't think like this. I will break down and won't be able to piece myself back together. Drawing in deep breaths, I attempt to calm myself. The effort of not crying slices at my chest with excruciating whiplashes, again and again, until I'm convinced the effort itself will be enough to break me down. I bite my arm when sobs overtake me, and give in to the pain and the fear. I let the pain bleed out in silent tears, until I have none left.

"No chance," Tristan says after what feels like hours. "I've shot down a bird, but the jaguars jumped on it right away. As usual, they've cut the thread with their fangs, so I've lost that arrow, too." Watching me with worry he says, "You're hungry, aren't you?"

"To be honest I can't feel the hunger anymore." Side effects of the pain.

"You still have to eat. I'll try going outside to dig for some roots."