Free Bringing the Boy Home by N. A. Nelson

me.
    â€œI’m going to try to get some sleep,” she murmurs as she plops back down. “We’re going to be there before you know it, and I want to hit the ground running.”
    Hit the ground running. I’m amazed by her choice of words.
    The cabin lights dim, the in-flight movie begins, and the newlyweds behind me finally quiet. I stare out thewindow. The blackness of the sky transforms the plastic into a mirror, and I trace the outline of my nose, my eyes, my ears, my mouth. I remember my maha’s last words: If only your body was as strong as your spirit . “It is, Maha,” I whisper to the face looking back at me. “It is.”
    Leaning my head against the pillow, I focus on the humming drone of the engines and finally feel myself falling asleep.
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    â€œTirio, we’re here.” Sara’s shaking me, and I wake to see the passengers around me standing and stretching.
    We’re here? I bolt up and crack my head on the overhead bin.
    Sara winces. “Ouch.”
    I wrestle my backpack from underneath my seat and smash my leg into the armrest as I hurry to stand behind her.
    â€œIt’s gonna be a while, Tirio,” Sara says, raising an eyebrow and gesturing toward the long line of people in front of us.
    â€œRight,” I say, rubbing my head where I hit it. No need to rush.
    Immigration is no problem, and we quickly board a smaller plane for our second leg. We’ve barely finisheddrinking our complimentary passion fruit drink before the pilot informs us we will soon be landing in the city of Manaus.
    A grinning, freshly showered Juan Diego is waiting for us outside the airport. He looks exactly like I remember him, except perhaps a little rounder. He gives Sara a long hug before finally turning to me and offering his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he teases.
    â€œTirio,” I say, playing along.
    â€œNo!” His mouth drops in pretend shock. “You are not Tirio. Tirio is a small boy about this tall.” He measures to his waist. “With thin arms, puny little legs, and a voice like a girl.”
    Sara laughs. “Them’s fightin’ words, Juan Diego.”
    â€œWell, I certainly wouldn’t want to get in a fight with this young man,” Juan Diego says, looking me up and down. “No doubt I’d lose.”
    I stand up straighter and they both laugh.
    â€œMan, oh man.” Juan Diego shakes his head as we walk toward the baggage claim. “Unbelievable.”
    Have I really changed that much? My heart swells.
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    After a half-hour ride with a chattering Juan Diego, I’m finally standing back on the bank of the Amazon. I stare out at the massive brown river. It hasn’t changed at all.The water in the cove where we’re docked is calm as glass, but a stone’s toss away, the current churns and sucks at branches and logs, eyeing our boat greedily. Kneeling, I dig my hands into the mud and breathe in the earthy odor. I shiver. From the water, the ground, and every tree limb, I feel a thousand eyes watching me. The jungle knows I’m back. The question is, will it let me in?
    Juan Diego unloads the supplies from town into the boat, and the mud groans in protest as he pushes the boat away from the shore.
    â€œTirio, I would love to give you some time to reminisce, but we’ve got to go if we want to get to camp before dusk,” he says.
    â€œRight.” I climb in and sit next to Sara.
    â€œWe’ve come a long way since the last time we were here, huh?” she says, putting her arm around my shoulders and scooting toward me.
    I nod.
    The roar of the boat engine makes it impossible to speak, so Sara and I just sit in silence for the next four hours—reconnecting with the Amazon in our own ways. I spot flashes of tail feathers in the trees, I listen to the many species of frogs debate the abundance of flies this year, and my stomach growls at the smells of meat