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“I know, I know, I’m trying!” Ali grunted. They hurtled forward, the water pulling them with increasing speed.

“There!” Ali called out. Just past a bend in the river was a wide bank, a carpet of green beyond the foaming white.

“Brace yourself!” Ali yelled, turning them straight toward it.

Whatever strength their engine had was put to the test as Ali fought the curving rush of the current. Santiago closed his eyes in the face of their watery grave, but no prayers came to him.

The boat lurched as its hull slammed into dry ground and he and Ali went flying into the dirt.

39

Santiago wasn’t knocked unconscious.

He knew that he wasn’t unconscious because his body hurt too damn much. Groaning, he pushed himself up, the flattened grass squelching beneath him. Mentally, he scanned for his pack, relieved to find it still attached to him.

I guess Abuelo Manco’s ashes won’t end up at the bottom of the river after all, he thought.

Santiago sat up, the muscles in his arms cramping from his death grip on the boat. He turned to look back at the river, still thundering forward like a runaway train.

By contrast, the riverbank was verdant and serene. Wildflowers peppered the ground like flecks of paint, the snowcapped peaks of mountains decorating the horizon. It was surreal, such tranquility in the face of helicopters, gunfire, and a boat crash.

Said boat lay in a wreckage before him. An enormous piece of the siding had been ripped off, and Santiago couldn’t see the motor. It was a disastrous wreck, and there would be absolutely no salvaging it. If they were going to get back to the snake head, he and Ali needed to walk.

Ali!

Santiago swung his head around, desperate to find her. He must be more out of it than he’d initially suspected. The world tilted, nauseating him as he stood, but he braced himself until the dizziness passed.

“Ali?” he rasped, voice tight and hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Ali!”

He heard a weak cough, then some retching. Santiago stumbled forward, angling around the largest piece of shattered hull in time to see Ali spit out a mouthful of river water.

“Ugh,” she groaned, rising to shaky feet and blinking at him through a filthy—but present—pair of lenses.

Relief flooded through him. That was, until he drew close enough to catch the foggy look of pain in her eyes.

“Ali? Are you…”

She staggered before he could finish his question, falling hard onto her knees. Santiago ran, skidding to the ground beside her. It was then that he saw the crimson stain blossoming underneath her shirt.

“You’re hurt,” Santiago gasped, stripping off his own shirt and pressing it to her shoulder. The already wet fabric quickly soaked through. “Were you shot?” he demanded desperately.

He immediately imagined the worst. How could he not? They were in the middle of nowhere, and the Eagle Scouts hadn’t taught him how to field dress a gunshot wound.

“No,” Ali answered faintly, her face devoid of color. “Not shot. Slashed by a piece of the boat when we crashed.”

Santiago’s instinct was to panic. To turn around and find the nearest responsible adult. As much as he had prepared himself for life in the field, Santiago had never been in a true crisis. Not one like this.

But there was no one he could turn to. They were mountains away from the nearest human who wasn’t actively trying to kill them. He was all Ali had.

Santiago looked helplessly at her pressed and bloodless lips, at the lines of pain crinkling her eyes. For the short time he’d known her, Ali had never hesitated to protect him. Now, it was his turn.

Santiago took a deep breath and then another. He forced the calmest, most reassuring smile he could muster onto his face and looked in Ali’s eyes. Her glasses had broken. A long crack marred the left lens. They had slipped down her nose, and he nudged them back up her face with gentle tenderness.

“It’s okay,” he assured her. “You’re going to be just fine.”

The river had washed most of the remaining mud from her face. He carefully rubbed a lingering streak off her cheek. Then he looked down at the wadded-up fabric stanching her blood flow.

“We need to get this patched up,” Santiago said, lightly pressing the hand of her uninjured arm against her wound. “You hold on to this a moment, all right?”