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skills to race to his death.
    And she wouldn’t reach him in time. It was hopeless. She knew that. She hoped his pain wouldn’t be too overwhelming before the end came.
    But Mariama Honso had never given up on anything, hopeless or not. She was as hardheaded as a rhino.
    All life was hopeless, but you kept living anyway.
    She changed the tire, got the car back on the road, and drove.
    *   *   *
    SHE FOUND GILLIARD’S Land Rover where she’d thought she would: where some long-vanished logger had given up his foolish attempt to build a drivable track to the giant, immensely valuable hardwood trees that grew deep in the forest. The end of the road.
    Mariama climbed out of her car, bringing only her recently sharpened machete with her. As she went past the Land Rover, she placed her palm against its hood. It was cool to her touch.
    More evidence that she was too late.
    She went on.
    *   *   *
    TREY HAD LEFT few signs that he’d passed this way, but still Mariama was able to follow. A broken branch, flower petals scattered where he’d brushed against them, half a footprint in a patch of mud. She knew where he was going, into the part of the forest that no outsider should ever enter.
    And then, at the very heart of the forbidden place, she saw him. Standing there on the edge of one of the colonies, trapped in the thorns of the volor plant. But alive. Still alive. She was amazed.
    As she drew closer, she could read his expression. A mix of fear . . . and fascination.
    That was unusual. Most people, facing what he was, showed only pure, unadulterated terror.
    She felt like shouting at him, but that was the worst thing she could do. He would jump, struggle, become so enmeshed in the volor that it would take hours to extricate him.
    Worse,
they
would be startled by her voice as well. And when they were startled, they attacked. They bit and stung. Paralyzed or killed.
    They. The thieves.
    So, even as her brain screamed at her to hurry, to run, to yell, she moved slowly, carefully. Coming up behind Gilliard, she cut through the brush with her sharp blade. Clearing a path for him, if he would only take it, if he would only notice.
    Beyond him, the thieves retreated. They knew her. They knew Mariama.
    But this still might not be enough.
    Finally he was free. Waking as if from a dream, he turned to look at her. His eyes were wide. She could see that he understood what had just happened, how close he’d come.
    He took a couple of steps away from the colony. Mariama went up on her toes and wrapped her arms around him, just for a moment. He stiffened, pulled away from her, but she held on a little longer before letting go.
    He had no idea why. Of course he didn’t.
    It was one of the things she needed to tell him.
    Only not now.
    â€œYou fool,” she said, to make sure he was listening, but also because it was what she thought of him.
“Flee.”
    When he was gone, she turned to face the thieves, hanging in the air, watching her through those green eyes that seemed to understand everything.
    But then again, she did, too.
    *   *   *
    EVEN THEN, EVEN after Mariama had saved him, her luck was bad. She hadn’t thought to tell him to wait for her where they’d left the cars—and he hadn’t. She shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d already seen that this odd American spent as little time with other adult human beings as he possibly could.
    Then a storm struck as she was driving back. The Peugeot had to fight through grasping mud, where Gilliard’s fancy Land Rover had undoubtedly plowed right through. It took her twice as long to get home as it had taken to reach the forest.
    Still, Mariama wasn’t worried. There was plenty of time for Trey to hear what she and her father had to tell him.
    Only there wasn’t. By the time she made it to Mpack, her white car now a spattered reddish brown from the drying mud, he