Chapter 3

The room was dim, the single bulb over the desk casting a weak yellow glow. Outside, the city was already stirring—motors coughing to life, voices calling in the damp air. Larry stood, his joints protesting, and crossed to the window. The street below was a confusion of stalls and people, but he searched the shadows for a gray raincoat, for anyone watching.

He saw nothing. But the feeling of being observed clung to him like the humidity.

Larry dressed slowly, deliberately, folding the notes and the business card into his breast pocket. The hummingbird carving he transferred to his pants pocket, where he could feel its weight against his thigh. He left the book on the desk, then thought better of it and tucked it into his bag. Every decision felt weighted, as if the wrong choice would send him stumbling into a trap.

Downstairs, the hotel lobby was small and tiled, with a ceiling fan that stirred the air without cooling it. The clerk from the night before was gone, replaced by a younger man who barely glanced up from his phone. Larry asked about breakfast and was directed to a café two blocks away.

He stepped outside, and the heat hit him like a wall. The street was alive with noise: music from a passing tuk-tuk, a woman calling out prices for fruit, a dog barking from a doorway. Larry kept his head down, one hand in his pocket on the hummingbird, the other clutching the strap of his bag. He moved with purpose, though he had no clear destination.

At the café, he ordered coffee and a roll, finding a table in the back where he could watch the door. The coffee was strong and bitter, and he drank it too fast, burning his tongue. He unfolded the map fragment on the table, smoothing the creases. The river that sings. The words pulsed in his mind. He needed to find someone who knew this land, who could read the old paths.

A shadow fell across the table. Larry looked up, his heart lurching.

A woman stood there, perhaps sixty, with silver-streaked hair pulled back and sharp brown eyes. She wore a simple blouse and carried a woven bag. She was not the man in the raincoat.

"Señor Hinojosa?" she asked. Her voice was low, steady.

Larry hesitated. "Yes?"

"I am Gabriela Valencia. A friend of Dr. Alvarez." She sat without asking, placing her bag on the chair beside her. "He told me you might come. That you would carry something precious."

Larry's throat tightened. "You knew him?"

"We worked together, many years ago. Studies of the old settlements, the ones before the conquest." She leaned forward, her eyes dropping to the map fragment. "He spoke of the Heart of the Sun. He said it must be protected, not found."

"Protected?" Larry's voice cracked. "I thought—"

"You thought he wanted it recovered. But he wrote to me before he died. He said someone else was searching, someone dangerous. He wanted to keep it hidden until he could find someone he trusted."

Larry stared at her. The café noise seemed to recede. "He trusted me?"

"He did. But he also feared you would be followed." She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded paper, yellowed with age. "This is a map to the first marker. It will lead you to a village where you can find a guide. But you must be careful. The ones who watch have long reach."

She pushed the paper across the table. Larry looked at it, then at her. "Why are you helping me?"

"Because I made a promise to a good man. And because the Heart of the Sun should not fall into the hands of those who would use it for power." She stood, her chair scraping the tile. "Go to the village of Santa Clara. Ask for a man named Rojas. Tell him Gabriela sent you. He will take you to the river."

Before Larry could thank her, she was gone, slipping through the café door and disappearing into the crowd. He sat alone, the new map in his hands, the weight of her words settling over him.

He folded the paper and tucked it with the others. Outside, the day had grown brighter, but the shadows seemed deeper. He paid for his coffee and stepped onto the street, his senses sharpened. He needed a boat, a guide, and a path into the jungle. But first, he needed to shake the feeling that every face in the crowd was watching him.

As he turned a corner toward the waterfront, a hand gripped his arm. He spun, heart hammering.

A boy, no more than twelve, stood before him, breathless. "Señor, a man said to give you this." He thrust a folded piece of paper into Larry's hand and ran before Larry could respond.

Larry opened it with shaking fingers. In the same block letters: "You are not alone. But they are closer than you think. Turn back now, or the jungle will take you."

He crumpled the paper, shoving it into his pocket. His breath came fast. He looked around—the street was full of people, but none of them met his eyes. The warning was clear. The threat was real.

But Larry thought of Dr. Alvarez, of the hummingbird, of the map fragment that held a secret worth dying for. He thought of his quiet apartment in Lima, the books that had been his world. This was no longer that world.

He straightened his shoulders and walked toward the river, the hummingbird's weight steady in his pocket. The jungle awaited, and he would not turn back.