The Ruins

to, spied upon. It took awhile for them to gather the courage to speak, and when Stacy finally did, it was in a whisper.

'I'm sorry,' she said.

Amy waved this aside.

'I wasn't thinking,' Stacy persisted. 'I just…I had pee on my foot.'

'It doesn't matter.' Amy gestured upward, toward the clouds. 'We'll be fine.'

'You're not a bitch.'

'I know, honey. Let's just…let's forget it, okay? Let's pretend it didn't happen. We're both tired.'

'Scared.'

'That's right. Tired and scared.'

Stacy shifted a little, edging toward her. She held out her hand, and Amy took it, clasped it.

Eric wanted to get up, follow Mathias down the hill, make everything clear to him. It had been his own voice shouting that word over and over again-Nazi-and he couldn't imagine what Mathias must be thinking now, didn't want to consider it, yet he kept probing at it, despite himself. I should've explained, he thought with a growing sense of panic. I should've told him it was a joke. He was in too much pain to pursue him, though, still bleeding heavily from his wound-at this rate, he didn't see how it would ever stop. But somebody had to go; somebody had to make it right. 'Go tell him,' he said to Stacy.

She gave him a blank look. 'Tell who?'

'Mathias. That it was a joke.'

'What was a joke?'

'Nazi-tell him we were just playing around.'

Before Stacy could answer, Pablo startled them by speaking. It was in Greek, of course: a single word, surprisingly loud. They all turned to stare at him. His eyes were open, his head lifted off the backboard, the muscles in his neck standing taut, trembling slightly. He repeated the word-potato, absurdly, was what it sounded like to Eric. He lifted his right hand, made a beckoning motion. He seemed to be gesturing toward the plastic jug.

That rasping voice: 'Po-ta-to.'

'I think he wants some water,' Stacy said.

Amy picked up the jug, carried it to the backboard, crouched beside Pablo. 'Water?' she asked.

Pablo nodded. He opened and closed his mouth, like someone mimicking a fish. 'Po-ta- to…po-ta-to…po-ta-to … '

Amy uncapped the jug, poured some of the water into his mouth. Her hands were shaking, though, and it came out too quickly, nearly choking him. He coughed, sputtering, turned his head away.

'Maybe you should give him a grape,' Stacy said. She picked up the plastic bag, held it toward Amy.

'You think so?'

'He hasn't eaten-not since yesterday.'

'But can he-'

'Just try it.'

Pablo had stopped coughing. Amy waited till he turned back toward her, then took out one of the grapes, held it up for him to see, raising her eyebrows. 'Hungry?' she asked.

Pablo just stared at her. He seemed to be fading, sinking inward. For a moment, there'd been something like color in his face, but now it had gone gray again. His neck went slack; his head fell heavily against the backboard.

'Put it in his mouth and see what happens,' Stacy said.

Amy slid the grape between Pablo's lips, pushing at it until it disappeared. Pablo shut his eyes; his jaw didn't move.

'Use your hand,' Stacy said. 'Help him chew it.'

Amy grasped the Greek by his chin, pulling his mouth open, then pushing it shut. Eric heard the wet sound of the grape popping, and then Pablo was gagging again, turning his head to the side, retching. The squashed fruit spilled out, followed by a surprising amount of liquid. Black liquid, full of stringy clots. It was blood, Eric knew. Oh Jesus, he thought. What the fuck are we doing?

And then, making him jump, nearly the exact same words sounded in the air behind him: 'What the fuck are you doing?'

Eric turned, astonished, and found Jeff standing above them, staring at Amy with a look of fury.

Sitting at the bottom of the hill, watching for the Greeks, Jeff had felt as if he were entering a slower, thicker version of time. The seconds had dragged themselves into minutes, the minutes had accumulated into hours, and nothing happened, nothing of note, nothing whatsoever-certainly not the thing he was there to stop from happening, the Greeks arriving, bumbling their way across the clearing, entering that forbidden zone into which Jeff and the others had fallen captive. He sat, the sun drawing precious moisture from his skin, adding its heat to the other discomforts of his body-his thirst and hunger, his fatigue, his growing sense of failure here, of doing and acting, only to inflict as much harm as he was attempting to prevent.

There was too much to think about, and none of it good.

There was Pablo, of course-how could Jeff help but think of Pablo? He could still feel the weight of the stone in his hand, the heat coming through that towel, could still hear the sound of bone shattering as he'd hammered at Pablo's tibia and fibula, could still smell the acrid stench of his burning flesh. What choice did I have? he kept asking himself, knowing even as he did so that this was a bad sign, this impulse to justify, to explain, as if he were fending off some accusation. I was trying to save his life. And these, too, were the wrong words to have echoing through his head-the trying to implying a failure, a thing hoped for, striven toward, but nonetheless unattained. Because it was true: Jeff was giving up on Pablo. Maybe, if rescue arrived in the coming hours, or even sometime tomorrow, he still might be saved. Was this going to happen, though? That was the question upon which everything hinged-the coming hours, the coming day-and Jeff was losing faith in it, relinquishing hope. He'd believed that by taking off the legs, or what remained of the legs, he might buy the Greek time-not much, but some-enough, maybe, just enough. But it wasn't going to end like that. He had to admit this to himself now. Pablo was going to linger for another day, or two, or three at best, and then die.

In great pain, no doubt.

There was always the chance that the Greeks might come, of course, but the more Jeff considered this possibility, the less likely it seemed. The Mayans knew exactly what they were doing here; they'd done it before, would almost certainly have to do it again. Jeff assumed that they must've stationed someone to guard the far end of the trail, someone to turn any potential rescuers aside, to divert and mislead them. Don Quixote and Juan would never be equal to this; even if they were coming, which Jeff doubted, they'd be easily deflected. No, if rescue were to arrive, it would be much later-too late, probably-weeks from now, after their parents realized that they'd failed to return and began to probe at this development, to worry and to act. Jeff didn't want to guess how long this might take-the calls that would have to be placed, the questions asked-before the necessary gears would start to turn. And, even then, would the search ever proceed beyond Cancun? Their bus tickets had been printed with their names on them, but were records kept of this? And, if that hurdle were somehow cleared, and the hunt shifted to Coba, how would it ever proceed the extra thirteen miles into the jungle? Whoever it was who might be pursuing the case would be given photographs, Jeff assumed; he'd show these to the taxi drivers in Coba, the street vendors, the waiters in the cafes. And perhaps the man with the yellow pickup would recognize them; perhaps he'd be willing to share what he knew. And then what? The policeman or detective would follow the trail, walk it to the Mayan village, bearing those four or five or six photographs-depending on whether he'd already managed to find out about Mathias and Pablo and connect them all together-and what would the Mayans offer him? Blank faces, certainly. A ruminative scratching of the chin, a slow shake of the head. And even if, by some miracle of persistence and shrewdness, this perhaps mythical policeman or detective managed to make his way past these