The transition from the wild, unyielding silence of the Rupununi to the frantic, humid cacophony of Georgetown was a sensory assault that Amara was not prepared to handle. As the small charter plane taxied toward the private hangar at Ogle Airport, the rhythmic drone of the engine finally died, replaced by the heavy, thick heat of the coastland—a heat that smelled of salt air, burnt jet fuel, and the distant, rot-sweet scent of the Demerara River.
Amara sat in the cramped cabin for a long moment after the pilot cut the ignition. Her hands, still calloused and scratched from her time in the bush, gripped the armrests until her knuckles turned white. She was back. She was safe. She had her briefcase, her signed papers, and her career intact. But as she looked out at the familiar zinc roofs
