his extra pair of trousers from the duffel bag, ripped them up the seams in such a way that two strips could be tied with rope in hammock fashion and two strips could be tied to hold the baby in. This was the nursery. But babies need nourishment. The women either could not or intended not to feed the wee thing. He had some tins of thick sweet condensed milk in his bag, which, once opened, lasted quite a while if the ants could be kept from it. It could be diluted with river water. But where did one get baby bottles? He looked thoughtfully around at the mud walls and up at the leaf roof, seeking inspiration. He ransacked the box in which they had brought various stores. There were a few empty penicillin bottles. They wouldn’t do. There was a salt shaker with a red plastic top, nicely perforated. Just the thing! Even as he prepared the diluted mixture of sweetened milk, he could hear the Indians calling him. “Aroldo, you forgot to bring the water. I’m thirsty.” One of the onlookers called out, “He’s feeding the baby.” “Leave the baby. It’ll die anyway. Come and take care of us.” The epidemic became steadily worse as the days passed. Harold carried drinking water from the river, chopped wood for the fires, roasted potatoes for food, dug graves, lowered the dead, cared for the baby, and comforted the mourning. Three weeks had not yet passed since Harry had left, but it seemed like a long time. The leaders of the tribe came to crouch on the ground in
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