The bus ride to Aguas Calientes was intense in and of itself. We wove around tiny roads and passed other buses with inches to spare between them and us, and us and a drop to our death. I tried to relax, but every time the bus swayed slightly, I gripped the armrests so tightly that by the time we got off the bus and into the rickety cars Antonio had arranged, my hands hurt almost as badly as my legs.
As I climbed into the back seat of my ride to the village, a 1973 Ford Whatever, I almost cried with relief. These seats actually had cushions. I imagined my pallet beneath me in Achiq’s house and couldn’t wait.
But alas, a midafternoon nap wasn’t in the plans. When we hiked up from where the cars dropped us off below the village, Ivan fell back and walked with Beattie, Hildy, Link, and me wh
