Izel clutched my fingers in her sweaty little fist. The only sounds in our hut were her panting in the heat and our mattress of rushes softly rustling any time one of us would turn over. “Mama,” she whispered. Her breath was like hot sand against my face. “Is there water?”

“Not yet, tum,” I whispered. My love. I stroked her hair with one hand and tucked a moist curl behind her ear. It was stifling inside, despite the darkness that surrounded us.

I didn’t want to think about how warm the next day would be, as the sun-god K’inich Ajaw climbed higher and higher into the sky. We just had to wait. Wait like we had the past several days, rats in a trap. Wait for the hunter to set them free.

“Just a little longer. Why don’t you play with your toys?” I didn’t even suggest trying to slumber. The heat hung inside our hut like thick animal hides pressing down from all sides. Sleep was impossible. Izel pouted, but rolled over and picked up her menagerie of little clay animals.

“Mama, when is Papa back?”

“He is still gone, looking for help,” I lied.

“When is he coming home?”

“Any day now, tum.” 

He was already home. I’d buried him, or the bones and ragged scraps of carcass that were left of his body, in the garden while Izel was asleep, days earlier. The sun dried my tears to salt tracks as I scrabbled in the dirt with my bare hands, grieving with gritted teeth to keep my hysterical screams from spilling out. I could never tell Izel what happened to her father.