Juan sat by his tent, gobbling a second helping of breakfast. He hadn"t slept well because there were too many things running through his mind. That, and his hand was killing him. He glanced out over the camp as he popped a piece of sausage into his mouth. The area was subdued and quiet. A group of porters murmured among themselves around the small open-air kitchen downwind. The Americans were hovering under a screened tent around a long table piled with papers and equipment. A thick mat of morning mist was rising off the forest floor.
He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It was going to be another oppressive hot and humid day. As he chased the last forkful of sausage, beans, and powdered eggs around the plate, he thought about the conversation he"d had with Inacio
