He staggered toward the bungalow. He went flailing through the dawn light, swiping at leaves that were not there, stamping his boots to ward off snakes. He had been asleep again and he had woken, and it had struck him like a lightbulb going on. He had to get to the bungalow. He had to lead the expedition. That was why he was here. He had saved her life, and now she needed him to lead the expedition. He had no idea what he’d been doing all this time. He’d been sleeping and dreaming, and thinking people were chasing him. He even thought she’d tried to knock him over with the jeep. But that was just something in his head. There were no Japs. No snakes. This was not Burma. He was a free man.

He reached the end of the dirt track. The sun was rising over the mountain, and everything was gold. He could see the washing line at the side of the bungalow, and there were little squares of cloth hanging up like handkerchiefs. He made his way to the steps that led to the veranda, hauling himself upward with his hands, but his legs trembled with the effort, and once or twice his feet slipped, and halfway there was a rough sound of sawing coming out of his chest that he realized must be his breathing. He must get to her. He must get to her before he got sick again and forgot what he was doing.

He knocked at the door and peered in at the window. He called, “It’s me! Boo! Rise and shine.” He guessed she must still be asleep, so he sat outside the door for a while and he rocked in her chair, like he’d seen her doing. And when the bad thoughts came, he gripped his hands into fists and told himself it would be okay now: he was here and so was she. Together they would finish the expedition. By now the sun was full on him and he was beginning to sweat.

And suddenly he realized what must have happened. He’d seen the blood on her, she needed his help—she was lying inside the bungalow, waiting for him to save her. And he staggered out of the chair so fast it fell over, and then he swung his foot hard and kicked open the door.

A terrible stillness. There was a mattress on the floor, piled with towels and blankets; there were pails of water. He called her name but even as he went from one room to the next, and he held out the gun, in case something sprang out, he knew she was not there. He saw the room where she slept; he saw piles of clothes, a makeshift kitchen with a sink. In her study, he found trays everywhere, stacked high, and he lifted them, and in each one there were beetles, like jewels, pinned, with their wings open. There was notebook after notebook, with neat writing and careful diagrams. There were even papers pinned on the walls, and boxes and boxes of little pots and jars, hundreds of tiny things wrapped in bandages, like cocoons. He unwrapped them, one after another, throwing off the bandages, like wrappers. He was aware of feeling cold and trembly, and his face being wet, and it was tears. He was crying—he was crying so hard he didn’t know how to stop.

She had gone. She had gone without him. She knew he was leading her expedition, but once again she had given him the slip. He hadn’t dreamed the jeep, after all. He didn’t know why she kept doing that. It hurt him so much. They were together. He had saved her life. And suddenly the flame was inside him and it was so big he roared with it and lashed out, kicking the blankets, punching walls, throwing old tins, pushing over pots of water; he was back in the camp, and the Japs were waiting for him. Somewhere far away he thought he heard the sounds of pain. The green of the trees seemed to steal all the air so that even inside the bungalow everything had a strange glow.

He picked up the first tray, and he lifted it over his head, ready to smash it. But the sounds of pain were not inside him anymore. They were beating on the roof and hammering at the doors and they were yelling at the windows. The trees were laughing, and the wind was laughing, and even the hundreds of beetles in the trays. Ha-ha-ha. He looked from one corner of the room to the next, terrified, confused. There were beetles flying at him, there were eyes. The shantytown boys were everywhere—they were peering in at the windows, they were crowding at the door, they were swarming around him, hanging upside down, doing cartwheels and somersaults, pulling at his clothes and poking him with sticks, shouting and pointing at him, as if he were a joke, yelling, shoving, and dragging him away from the study and toward the door. Some were even picking up the mess he’d made, and he did not know the words, he did not know what they were saying, but it sounded like Ree-tard. Ree-tard.

He shoved one beetle into his pocket, put his hands to his ears, and ran.