“I don’t have any idea what’s going on. Quam’s truth,” Chekwe protested, holding his good arm out as if to ward off blows. Quarla gave him a good hard stare, then turned to Paul.
“I don’t know who you are, sonny, but you look like a nice young brownie, and not the sort to sow around with turds like this. You look too smart for that. Do you know what’s going on?”
Paul could hardly sputter out a word. Quarla looked hard at Chekwe again.
“You look like hell. How’d you get that shoulder? A jug will do you good, I expect. There, sit down. I don’t know what jungle den you’ve been hiding in, but the whole world is going to turds out here.” She steered Chekwe and Paul towards a couple of hammocks strung from some palms and, walking a few yards away to a little crevice in the hillside, produced
