Chapter 2

His small suitcase sat open on the bed, half-packed with what he imagined a man would need in the jungle: a khaki shirt that hadn’t seen daylight in years, a battered sun hat, prescription sunglasses, and a tube of industrial-strength insect repellent he’d bought on a whim last summer. He stowed the hummingbird carving in a sock for protection and tucked both the note and map fragment between the pages of "Forgotten Civilizations of the Amazon."

The apartment felt smaller than usual, crowded by the weight of what he was about to do. Larry paused by his bookshelves, running his fingers along the spines. Each title a friend, a haven. Would he ever see them again?

The phone buzzed. His daughter, Gabriela, checking in after their late-night call. "Dad, be careful. Text when you land. And call if you need anything," she wrote. He typed a quick reply—heartfelt, vague—and set the phone facedown. He didn’t want to lie, but he couldn’t tell her everything. Not yet.

Larry checked and rechecked his list. Passport, cash, credit cards. The book. The carving. A picture of his wife, folded and worn at the edges. He hesitated over a dog-eared postcard from Dr. Alvarez, the only memento from his friend besides the note. He slipped it into his breast pocket for luck, whispering, “I hope you know what you’ve started.”

On his way out, Larry locked the apartment door and slid the spare key through the mail slot of Mrs. Salazar, his neighbor. She’d agreed—reluctantly—to water the plants if Gabriela forgot. The hallway was quiet, familiar. He drew a deep breath, steadying himself for the world beyond his routine.

The cab ride to Jorge Chávez International Airport was uneventful, but Larry’s nerves jangled at every stoplight. Lima pulsed outside the window: street vendors hawking mangoes, smog curling above traffic, distant laughter from a radio. It all felt farther away than ever before.

At the airport entrance, Larry joined the slow-moving line for check-in. He clutched his bag tightly, aware for the first time how thinly he was armored against the unknown. The map fragment and hummingbird weighed more than their mass.

A young man bumped into him, apologizing in rapid Spanish, and Larry’s librarian’s instincts flared. He’d spent years watching for sleight of hand among overly curious patrons. He checked his pockets—passport, wallet, carving. All was intact. Still, he gave the young man a long, searching look. The stranger lingered a moment too long at the periphery before melting into the crowd.

Larry’s heart thumped. He suddenly felt exposed, the hummingbird’s outline burning into his palm.

He navigated security with trembling fingers, shuffling forward, shoes off, as uniformed guards watched every move. Ahead of him, a woman in a crisp suit was arguing with a security officer about some forbidden item. Larry forced himself to focus, collecting his things, moving through the checkpoint.

Near his gate, Larry found a seat by the window. He set his bag at his feet, one hand looped through the strap. Rain streaked the glass. He tried to read, but the words blurred. Instead, he watched the crowd: backpackers in bright shirts, businessmen, a family hauling oversized suitcases.

A man in a gray raincoat sat down three chairs away. He pretended to read a newspaper, but his eyes flicked repeatedly toward Larry. The librarian’s training—long years of noticing quiet disturbances—told him this was no ordinary traveler.

Larry shifted his position, angling the bag behind his legs. He opened "Forgotten Civilizations of the Amazon," feigning absorption. Out of the corner of his eye, the man continued to watch.

The gate attendant called boarding for his flight. Larry rose, feeling the man in the raincoat rise as well. As they queued, the stranger sidled close, too close. Larry caught a faint trace of cologne—sharp, unfamiliar.

"You dropped something," the man murmured in English, holding out a folded piece of paper. Larry stared. It was plain, except for a single line written in careful block letters: "Turn back."

Instinct warred with curiosity. Larry accepted the paper with a nod, folding it into his pocket. He said nothing, stepping forward as the line advanced. His mind raced—was he being followed already? Who knew about the artifact, or about him? Was this a warning, or a threat?

Inside the plane, Larry found his seat, tucking the bag under the seat in front of him. He scanned the aisle—the man in the raincoat was nowhere to be seen. Relief and dread mingled in his chest.

Takeoff was a blur of engine noise and taut worry. Larry stared out the window as clouds enveloped the city, Lima shrinking to a patchwork of lights. In the cramped silence, he pulled the hummingbird carving from his sock, tracing the word “Paititi” with his thumb. He tried to let the familiar feel of wood anchor him, but uncertainty gnawed at his resolve.

Hours later, after a fitful doze and a small, tasteless meal, the plane touched down in Iquitos—the threshold of the Amazon. Larry filed out with the other passengers, air thick with humidity wrapping him like a wet towel. He retrieved his bag, scanning for signs of the man in the raincoat.

No sign. But as Larry exited to the taxi stand, a boy pressed a glossy business card into his hand. "For you, señor." The card was blank on one side, but on the reverse, in the same blocky hand: "Not alone."

Larry’s pulse battered his ribs. He climbed into the first taxi he saw, giving the name of a modest hotel he’d circled in his guidebook. As they sped through narrow streets, the jungle visible beyond the city’s edge, Larry pressed the card and the warning note between the pages of his book.

He reached his hotel without further incident. The desk clerk handed him a key. “Welcome, señor Hinojosa.”

In the silence of his room, Larry placed his things carefully on the small writing desk. The carving, the book, the two warning notes. He sank into the sagging chair, rain drumming steadily against the window. The clues he’d hoped would lead him forward now made him feel hunted. The stakes had grown. It was no longer just a quest—someone wanted him to stop, and would go to lengths to see that he didn’t succeed.

Larry allowed himself one moment of doubt—one long, bone-deep tremor of fear. Then, sighing, he opened "Forgotten Civilizations of the Amazon" and began to study the map fragment under the yellow desk lamp, searching for the path of the river that sings, doubly aware now that every move he made was watched, and every step mattered more than he could have imagined.