Chapter 11YELLOW LIGHT FILTERED THROUGH the canopy, streaking downwards in isolated shafts. Angélica’s black hair, similar to Cherry’s, just touched her shoulders and, with her dark brown eyes, she became part of the heavy jungle’s shadowed mosaic.
‘I want to be away from here,’ she said, gazing up at Jago. She admired his taut, sinewy muscles and his drooping mustache with its few scattered gray hairs. His long dark hair was pulled into a ponytail, bound with a butterfly-blue cord. The battle-worn survivor, now thirty-six years old, had found his home with the FARC as a seventeen-year-old teenager, after the Colombian Army had killed his family— a past trauma he shared with many other rebels, including those within his group. He had been eleven years younger than Angélica’s twenty-eight
