Free The Jade Notebook by Laura Resau

ignore him.
    Layla tilts her head. “Why don’t we pay them a visit?” Her eyes light up. “I’d love to see a jaguar up close.”
    The last thing I want to do is go back to the Forbidden Territory, not so soon after this encounter. Not when I’m still shaking. I try to sound composed. “First, I haven’t seen any entrance from the road. Or a house. We’d have to find a safeway to get in. And second, I want to do some research before I confront someone who keeps a wildcat”—I pause and flick my eyes to Joe—“
jaguar
on their own property.” Mustering up a strained smile, I conclude, “And then it’s back to enjoying paradise.”
    But that’s when it hits me. With all the adrenaline rushing through me, I forgot about it. Wendell’s vision. About the jaguar.

Wendell and I amble along the Mazunte beach, past the restaurant huts and palm-thatched cabanas, around clusters of swimsuit-clad sunbathers. Sweat is pouring from my scalp, dampening my light cotton dress and the swimsuit beneath it. It’s nearly sunset and still sweltering.
    I’m groggy from the long nap I took with Wendell in the hammock. We slept too long, worn out from our work in the jungle and the intense heat of the day. When we finally woke up, we decided to take an evening walk on the main beach to ask locals what they know about a large feline roaming the jungle.
    “This jaguar,” I begin, wiping a trickle of sweat from my cheek, “is it the one from your vision?”
    After a pause, he nods. “I think so.”
    I wait for him to reassure me that the jaguar in his vision was behind a fence too.
    He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “I looked up jaguars online. They’re native to this area, like Joe said. Only they’re rare, and they usually stay well hidden, in remote places. But that animal in the jungle—it fits the description.”
    Biting my lip, I venture, “Any advice on what to do if you come across one?”
    Wendell gives a nervous half-smile. “Don’t run. Face it and back away slowly. Don’t look into its eyes. Make yourself look bigger.” He raises his arms, waves them around, demonstrating. “The jaguar might think twice about devouring you.”
    “And if that doesn’t work?” I ask, not sure I want to know.
    “If it attacks, you could try punching it in the nose. Poking its eyes.”
    A weak laugh escapes me. The image seems a little clownish, like one of Joe’s attempted slapstick bits.
    “But honestly?” Wendell continues matter-of-factly, “you’re pretty much doomed.”
    “Doomed?” I swallow hard.
    “Their jaws are so strong they can crush the skulls of their prey in one bite.” Wendell has the scientific detachment of a nature channel narrator when he gives disturbing animal facts. But there’s a twinkle in his eye that assures me he’s not taking this too terribly seriously. I’m guessing—
hoping
—the jaguar in his vision didn’t actually devour anyone.
    I breathe deeply and focus on my surroundings—the fiery orange sky, seagulls dipping for fish over the swells, my bare feet squishing in the wet sand, cool water lapping at my ankles, the smells of fried fish and Corona with lime.
    I’m searching for a new conversation topic—one that doesn’t involve tooth-punctured skulls and curses—when Wendell adds, “They’re one of the only predators that can crush the shells of sea turtles.”
    As Wendell goes on about jaguars, we approach Restaurante Tesoro Escondido—Hidden Treasure—and see that there’s a volleyball game in progress on a sand court beside the restaurant. A bunch of people, mostly around our age, are diving and leaping, squealing and laughing, shaking sand from their hair. Most of them look like locals and appear to be friends, judging by the way they casually toss their arms around each other. We’ve passed these evening games before, and I’ve always been tempted to join in the fun, feel like part of this town.
    “Hey!” I say, interrupting Wendell’s list of jaguar