They arrived at Paso around noon.
The town centered on a bustling cross-shaped square, teeming with lively crowds.
Around the square’s edges stood makeshift shelters of all sizes—huts with palm-leaf roofs held up by wooden poles, and hammocks strung between pairs of trees.
Takwar got lucky and found an unoccupied patch of ground in the market where no one had set up camp yet.
After helping set up the camp, Pei Zhi vanished somewhere.
Song Yu had rarely seen such a vibrant scene. The market drew people from all corners of the jungle, hawking wares of every kind.
Animals ranged from tiny, brilliantly feathered macaws to full-sized cattle.
There were stalls selling daily necessities too—salt, sugar, that sort of thing.
Shirtless children clutched earthen jars filled with peeled pineapple chunks, peddling them everywhere.
With Kasi and Takwar busy minding their stall, Song Yu grew restless and wandered off on her own.
She strolled and paused, overwhelmed by the sights.
Along the way, she snapped photo after photo. Some folks demanded reals in payment, while others were friendly enough to pose for free. Even a few kids, left unattended by their parents, chased after her begging to be photographed.
By the end, the camera’s memory was full.
Song Yu stepped to the roadside and leaned against a tree, scrolling through her shots one by one—keeping the good ones and deleting the rest.
Suddenly, she narrowed her eyes, pausing on a particular image. There, in the background, was a familiar figure.
The photo captured the market stretching from its far end all the way to the square’s heart.
Pei Zhi occupied only a small corner of the frame.
He sat inside a tent draped in white cotton cloth, surrounded by four or five women.
Even in the still shot, their enthusiasm was plain—the way they tugged necklaces from around their throats to show him.
“…”
Song Yu pursed her lips. No wonder he’d disappeared the moment they reached Paso. Off chasing women.
For some reason, the sight stung her eyes. She deleted the photo on the spot.
Just then, a man herded two cows past, shouting in the local indigenous dialect for people to clear the way.
The cows grew restless amid the crowd, bucking and barreling through wildly.
An elderly Native American woman couldn’t dodge in time and tumbled to the ground.
Song Yu rushed over, setting her camera aside to help the woman to her feet.
The old woman was slight and frail, her face adorned with intricate black patterns that spread from her cheeks like twisting vines—more refined than the designs Havana and her people usually wore.
She dressed neatly in faded but spotless cotton clothes, draped in a striped woven shawl that screamed local style.
She carried a basket brimming with flowers of every color.
Gripping Song Yu’s arm, the old woman rose slowly and gave her a warm, kindly smile, murmuring something.
Song Yu couldn’t understand the words, but the accent differed from that of Takwar’s tribe.
She smiled back.
The old woman’s eyes shone with a clarity at odds with her age, radiating a fierce hope. Her features hinted that she’d once been a striking beauty.
Song Yu eyed the patterns on her face, curiosity piqued. She waved her camera, miming a question: Could she take a photo?
The old woman shook her head vigorously, her fear of the camera plain—just like Havana and the others before.
Song Yu fished every real from her pocket.
Still, the old woman waved her off, firm in her refusal.
She wouldn’t trade the purity of her soul, no matter the bribe.
With no other choice, Song Yu dropped the idea. Careful not to offend, she gestured to the designs on the woman’s face and said in English, “They’re beautiful.”
The old woman seemed to grasp the compliment, her eyes lighting up.
She rummaged in her basket, pulling out a small clay pot and a bamboo stick.
The pot held a blackish-blue liquid that smelled like some plant extract.
Dipping the stick in the juice, the old woman leaned in as if to paint Song Yu’s face.
Startled by the sudden enthusiasm, Song Yu instinctively leaned back.
After some awkward back-and-forth to confirm the pigment washed off, Song Yu still lacked the nerve for a facial design. She pointed to a spot near her neck instead.
The bamboo stick, slick with plant juice, traced cool, itchy lines across her skin.
Though the old woman’s hands trembled with everyday tasks, they proved remarkably steady for painting. In just ten minutes or so, she’d finished a striking pattern.
Geometric shapes—triangles overlapping rectangles—filled with wavy lines, the design unique and sprawling from Song Yu’s neck down toward her collarbone.
Delighted with her handiwork, the old woman lingered with Song Yu a bit longer before hoisting her basket and shuffling slowly into the jungle, vanishing amid the greenery.
Song Yu admired it for a moment, amused, then zipped up her jacket’s collar and headed back to find Kasi and the others.
Takwar had bartered for more goods than they’d brought—five sacks of corn and rice, salt, lamp oil, two cotton skirts, and candy for the kids.
The market wrapped up at dusk, and soon the air filled with the aromas of cooking from the various camps.
Back in the tribe, Havana handled all the meals, but out here, dinner was a hasty affair.
Pei Zhi didn’t return until after everyone had eaten, by which time night had fully fallen.
In Paso, light came from wood fires and campfires, supplemented by the rumble of small generators. Two bulbs hung over Cross Square, twinkling like stars in a pretty display.
Song Yu lay in her hammock, a beige gauze mosquito net draped over it, with palm fronds layered outside against bugs and rain.
She’d burrowed into her sleeping bag, only her head poking out.
Outside, Takwar and Pei Zhi chatted softly—she couldn’t make out the words.
Stirring at the sound, Song Yu glanced at her watch. It was already nine at night.
By rainforest standards, that was late.
An inexplicable stuffiness filled her chest. Coming back so late—he must have been held up by those women.
Takwar said something.
Perhaps to avoid waking the women, Pei Zhi responded sparingly, his replies low and clipped.
His voice was clear and pleasant, unhurried.
But it only irritated Song Yu.
That damn voice of his—women must eat it up.
Soon, the voices outside fell silent, leaving only the crackle of the warming campfire.
Kasi shared Song Yu’s hammock; the girl was a restless sleeper, tossing and turning, even grinding her teeth.
Takwar’s snores came in fits and starts.
Sleep eluded Song Yu entirely. She unzipped her bag, grabbed her laptop, and slipped quietly from the hammock.
The fire had died to glowing embers, still putting off some heat.
She warmed her feet by the coals, leaning back against a pile of rice sacks like a little hill.
Song Yu’s fingers rested on the keyboard, but she typed nothing. Her long lashes drooped as she lost herself in thought.
The screen’s bluish glow lit her cheek, her mouth tugged downward in a frown.
In the hush of the night, a voice suddenly drifted down from above, low and measured.
“Not sleeping yet?”
Song Yu’s shoulders twitched. Tilting her head back, she spotted a figure in the dense branches overhead.
Pei Zhi lounged against the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, one leg bent, the other dangling straight and long, swaying gently in the air.
Tree canopy shadows cloaked him. Behind, a white canopy tent was rigged on branches, topped with mosquito netting and palm leaves.
From her angle, Song Yu could make out only the sharp line of his jaw. The six-pointed star earring caught the dark light, glinting like a cross, a star in truth.
Her lashes fluttered. She mumbled a soft “Mm,” then quickly looked away.
A black flying insect, drawn to the glow, crawled onto the back of her hand. She stared at it, forgetting to shoo it off.
“Planning to feed the bugs down there?” the man teased.
Song Yu pursed her lips, flicking the insect away. Under her breath, in Chinese, she muttered, “Mind your own business.”
Still, she replied politely in English: “I’ve got bug spray on.”
Pei Zhi arched a brow. He’d caught her Chinese grumble—whoever had soured her mood, it wasn’t his affair.
Best not to meddle when kids were in a sulk.
“If you can’t sleep, come up for a bit.” With that, he turned, lifted the netting, and ducked into the white tent.
Song Yu ignored him.
The nighttime rainforest was far from cozy.
Unfamiliar animal calls echoed, insects buzzed relentlessly, and hand-sized spiders ambled lazily not far from the fire.
A drop or two of rain pattered on her forehead.
In rainy season, downpours loomed around the clock, striking with little warning.
On a low branch, the tent flap stirred in the wind, bulging inside but sealed tight.
Warm yellow light seeped through, outlining the man’s silhouette—head slightly bowed, back straight, laptop on his knees as he worked on something.
Song Yu watched his shadow for a moment, wrestling inwardly, then snapped her laptop shut. Tucking it under her arm, she climbed the short ladder to the tree.
“Can I come in?” Her voice came out muffled.
Pei Zhi paused his writing, lifting his gaze. He reached out and pulled back the netting.
Insects clustered on the outside. Afraid of letting them in, Song Yu scrambled through and secured the flap tight.
She only realized it after stepping inside: the shelter that had seemed reasonably spacious from the outside was actually quite cramped, especially now that it held two people.
She sat cross-legged with some difficulty, barely managing to avoid brushing against the man’s legs.
A heavy downpour hammered down outside, drumming against the palm fronds covering the tent with a relentless pitter-patter.
Even if she regretted it now and wanted to leave, she couldn’t.
The enclosed space plunged into an almost mystical silence.
Outside, a storm raged, but inside the little tent, it was deathly still—even their breathing was clearly audible.
The kerosene lamp in the center of the tent cast a dim, hazy yellow glow.
“Are you upset?” Pei Zhi’s voice broke the silence.
Song Yu blinked in surprise. She hadn’t expected him to ask so directly. Had she let her feelings show that obviously?
“A little,” she admitted frankly. She rarely lied.
“But I don’t want to tell you why.” She cut off any potential follow-up questions. “I’ll get over it soon.”
In the end, she was just an outsider, a bystander. She didn’t even have the right to be unhappy in the first place.
Seeing that she didn’t want to talk about it, Pei Zhi pressed his lips together and let the subject drop.
He flipped open his notebook and resumed recording the day’s field observations.
He had spent the entire day piecing together the makeup of the people in Paso—which Native American groups they came from, which parts of the jungle.
There was a lot of scattered information to sort through, and it took some effort.
When Song Yu had first ducked into the tent, she’d gotten a bit wet. Her jacket’s hood and collar were damp and sticky against her skin.
She shifted slightly and tugged the zipper down a little for some air, then remembered she was only wearing a tank top underneath. She stopped pulling at the collarbone.
The man kept his head down, absorbed in his notebook.
The pen scratched softly across the paper, filling the air with a faint scent of ink.
In this digital age, it was a rare smell—one that brought a sense of calm and stability.
“What are you drawing?” she asked, breaking the quiet. From her angle, she could make out a blurry pattern.
“A Bororo Indian necklace.”
“Why draw that?”
Song Yu found it fascinating. Most people wouldn’t pay attention to such minor details.
She leaned in closer. Up close, she recognized it as the jewelry hanging around the woman’s neck in that photo.
“Different groups have strong preferences for the materials and colors in their ornaments,” he explained. His voice was low and pleasant, every word crisp and clear. “They reveal a lot of information. For instance, the necklace’s materials can hint at their past living environments, and the carved patterns can suggest their beliefs.”
Song Yu blinked, staring at his profile. It was rare to hear him say so much.
So that was why he’d taken the photo back then—to document these things.
Her lips curved into a smile. She already felt better.
Pei Zhi finished sketching the final shell-shaped ornament and looked up at her.
Suddenly, his gaze froze, landing on the open V of her collar.
His stare was direct, unmasked, lingering for a long moment on her exposed collarbone.
Song Yu noticed and froze. For an instant, panic and wariness flickered through her.
They held the moment in a tense standoff.
She broke first. Under his gaze, heat flooded her cheeks. She raised a hand to pull the zipper back up.
But before she could, Pei Zhi leaned in close. His large hand captured her slender wrist, halting her movement.
His fingers brushed her neck, their tips cool like mint.
They trailed down to her collarbone, caressing it as if it were the world’s most precious porcelain—gentle, deliberate, unhurried.
Song Yu’s heart jolted.
In the cramped space, the temperature spiked, charged with the gathering heat of smoldering flames.