Mosquito, vector of malaria

In the morning, you’re first awakened by the bugs. Insects are everywhere, blanketing the pond and your meager encampment. You rinse dead bugs from your mouth, brushing mosquitoes from your arms and legs, your clothing saturated with sweat.

“Is this the price for taking the shortest way ’round?” you ask no one in particular. Your guide, whose English consists of roughly eleven words, offers a wan smile.

Fatigue sets in early that afternoon, and the next morning you’re too weak even to rise. The medicines you brought from home are useless, and you can feel your fever rising rapidly. You begin to hallucinate.

You soon lose track of the days. You don’t know if your guide went for water, or if he left you to die. The canopy feels like it’s closing in on you, and you know your time is short.

With your dying breath, you call out — not for God or for your mother, but for gold.

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