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avoided thinking about, was whether the logging truck blocking the road had really been disabled, or whether someone had contrived to trap her here.
    She began backing up, planning to turn around in front of the sheds, where the trail was wider. Before she’d gone twenty feet, headlights appeared behind her, bouncing wildly, coming fast. They stopped four feet from her bumper.
    A door slammed. Something briefly blocked one headlight, then the other, and then the barrel-shaped guard was opening her door.
    He motioned for her to get out. Being altogether trapped, Amy complied. She swung her legs to the ground and leaned down to tie her boots. The guard took hold of her arm as if to steady her, but instead hauled her firmly outside and toward the front of the Land Rover. The boots stayed behind.
    She began twisting her arms and body. She clawed at his dinner-plate-sized hands, trying to pry away the pinky and ring finger as she’d been taught in a self-defense class . He simply mashed her against the Land Rover and switched his grip. Now he held her elbows from behind and she could no longer reach his hands with hers.
    Walking backward, he dragged her a little further. She kept struggling, twisting her arms against his fingers, trying to feel which direction of torque might weaken his grip. Amy was strong, triathlon strong, but he held her like a small child, his fingers easily encircling her arms. She kicked her heels backwards, but the blows appeared to have no effect, even when it felt like she was connecting squarely with his kneecaps. He seemed too big to hurt.
    So she saved her breath and went limp in the hope that making him hold her weight would tire out his arms. He jerked her upright a few times, trying to get her to stand on her own, but finally gave up and let her sag.
    With her head turned away from the blinding headlights, she could still see where the ground dropped into darkness just a few yards off. If she could get loose, the next move would be to get herself down that slope right away. No telling how far down it might take her, but a tumble would most likely be better than whatever was about to happen here.
    Heavy springs creaked somewhere behind her, and she squinted back toward Marcel’s truck. The dome light was on, and even behind the glare of the headlights, the tall guard was visible as he got out of the cab, unfolding to his full size like a winged creature emerging from a chrysalis. He became a silhouette when he moved in front of the headlights. From one hand hung a machete long enough that it could have doubled as a scimitar.
     
     

 
    CHAPTER THREE
     
     
    Most of the families with children had left the logging camp already, but nearly two dozen kids remained, and these had spent the day gathering wood for the ring of fires that would hold the fever animals at bay for the first hours of darkness. Now the fun part had come, and the children ran in a ragged group, laughing as they started blazes at intervals around the edges of the clearing. They had made the process into a ritual, building the stacks of wood throughout the day, all the tinder in place, and now each mound would require only a single flick of a lighter. The oldest boy would sometimes reserve that privilege for himself, sometimes bestow it upon a deserving comrade.
    Marcel left his trailer with a rifle in hand and headed down a footpath that led into the forest. After a few minutes he found the old man squatting next to the remains of a fire much smaller than those built by the children. Small, but glowing brightly enough to ward off any creature in the area that was highly sensitive to light. The old man had been cooking plantains over a few burning sticks, and the sweet aroma lingered. Above the embers his face looked like an orange mask suspended in the darkness. Marcel sat down next to him.
    “The camp is really moving?” the mask said. The old man had been attending to business near the capital for nearly a week, and