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"No. Absolutely not. It's too dangerous."
"So is dying from starvation, Aimee."
I almost laugh out loud. My infected wound will see to it that I don't die of starvation.
And then it strikes me. He will.
Stuck here with me, nothing awaits him but death. We might be unable to leave. But Tristan isn't. I've seen him move through the forest. He's agile, strong and fast. If he manages to get past the jaguars, he stands a good chance of reaching the rescue group. Without me as a burden, he can reach safety. The thought fuels my hope. I cling to it for dear life. Oh, I cling to it so desperately. Now I have to convince him to leave.
"I have an idea," I say as Tristan lies on his seat with his eyes closed, tired, hungry, and thirsty. "Why don't you go and meet the rescue team?"
"What?" his sharp voice is accompanied by a loud crack as he bolts into a sitting position, his eyes piercing me.
"It’s a good idea. You'd have food and be rejuvenated so you could lead them back to the plane and help me." I don't meet his eyes when I utter the last part, but Tristan can probably read my true intentions. "I know how you move through the forest, Tristan. You can do this better on your own. Even if I were healthy, I'd hold you back. I'm slow and clumsy."
"We're a team, Aimee. You said that."
I sigh. "Well, this would be for the benefit of the team. If you can lead them here quicker, I can receive medical aid quicker."
"I am not leaving you here," he says. "I'm not leaving you at all."
"But you are starving, Tristan. You can't wait for them to reach us." To reach him; by the time the rescue team arrives, I will be dead. He knows that. I know that. Neither of us says it out loud.
He kneels in front of me taking both my hands in his, and then puts them on the sides of his neck. "Remember what you told me when I was sick?"
"I remember we had a thorough astronomy class," I say. At his quizzical look I add, "We talked a lot about stars."
"You said that if I didn't wake up tomorrow, you didn't want to wake up either." His voice is breathy and shaky, as if he's trying to withhold tears "Now I'm telling you that. If you don't make it until the rescue team arrives, I don't want them to rescue me at all." He slings his arms around me in a tender embrace. "But you'll be all right, Aimee. You'll see."
I do see. I see the truth. He's in danger because of me. I'm a liability. I will get worse. That's what infections do. I can't help him fight the jaguars, and we can't leave. We can't do anything because of me. And he won't leave. Disease will rot me, and hunger and thirst will rot him, because he won't leave.
In this flash of a second, with my ear pressed against his chest, I understand what must happen for Tristan to leave.
I have to die.
Since the flesh on my ankle seems to disintegrate with each passing hour, and the pain intensifies at the same rhythm, one would assume I wouldn't have long to live. But death doesn't come as fast as I need it to. After two days of waiting to die, I search for ways to deliberately put myself in danger. It's not easy under Tristan's watchful eyes. I could take a knife and finish myself. I am in so much pain I would welcome any kind of relief. But Tristan has enough survivor guilt to torment himself, I don't need to add more. If I did that, I would take away from him the little freedom he gained in our time together. I try to stop drinking water, but Tristan makes sure I drink to the last drop, insisting I have to hydrate myself. My fever is dangerously high. The air in the plane is becoming sticky and heavy, impossible to breathe.
We haven't eaten anything in a day and a half, and the prospect of having a meal soon is nonexistent. Tristan's been trying to catch a bird. He's doing fine with the shooting part. The problem is when he pulls the thread at the end of the arrow. That doesn't work because, as usual, the jaguars capture the prey on the way. But Tristan doesn't give up. He shot one bird already today and is on his way to shooting the second. He tries not to shoot more than once a day because we don't have enough arrows. If he uses one arrow a day, we could theoretically last until the rescue team arrives. Unless he doesn't get us a meal with one arrow… then we might starve before the rescue team arrives. He hasn't succeeded yesterday, or today. I suppose that prompted him to use a second
arrow today.
I stay curled in my seat, fighting sleep and exhaustion. It creeps in every single bone. Every time I wipe sweat from my forehead I'm reminded of the reason for my unnatural exhaustion. My fever is so high my brain must be fried. I eventually give in and drowse.
"Finally," Tristan announces, startling me. "Oh, look, the poor bird fell in your spine bush by the entrance when I shot it."
"Huh?" I ask, still fighting the tendrils of sleep.
"The spines with the black sap."
Through watery eyes I see Tristan pluck out a handful of spines from the bird's plumes. They are indeed the same kind of spines that left the black line on my shoulder. Tristan's gaze darts from the bird to me.
"How are you feeling Aimee?" The worry in his tone acts as an impulse. I force myself to sit straighter.
"Just a bit tired," I lie.
"Does your leg hurt?"
"It's not that bad today." This is not a lie. Either I'm so beyond pain I don't recognize it anymore (which I admit, is a realistic possibility) or the fever has somehow numbed me.
