After the Rains by Deborah Raney Page B

about. You have to goon. You have to go on and live your life. You know Sara would have wanted you to.”
    “Sara would have wanted to live.”
    The hard edge in Natalie’s tone frightened Daria. “Of course she would have. But God must have had something else in mind.”
    “Don’t blame it on God, Mom. It was my fault.”
    “Natalie, stop it.” She tried to make her voice firm. “I won’t hear any more of this kind of talk. I’m very sorry that Sara died. You lost a wonderful friend. We all did. It was a terrible, terrible tragedy. But you can’t go on blaming yourself for what happened.”
    Natalie swung her legs over the side of the bed and put her head in her hands.
    “Mom.” Natalie’s voice broke, and something in her tone made Daria’s heart beat faster. Natalie lifted her chin. Their gazes met, and Natalie opened her mouth as if she meant to say something.
    “What’s wrong, honey? Just let it out. Cry if you need to; scream if you need to.”
    But then her daughter turned away again and sat motionless and mute on the edge of the mattress, her eyes fixed on some monster that Daria could neither see nor slay.

Eleven
    Timoné, Colombia, South America
    T he clouds rolled in and the afternoon rains threatened as Nathan Camfield crossed the village commons and began loping toward the hut across the stream. He jumped the brook and almost made it to safety before the skies broke open to wash the jungle canopy. But the rainwater quickly pierced layers of palm branches and lush jungle foliage and ran in tiny rivulets on Nate’s skin, trickling down to larger streams on the forest floor. Drenched and out of breath, he scaled the stairs two at a time and burst into the relative dryness of the hut that served as the mission office.
    David Chambers looked up from the makeshift desk where he’d been engrossed in some document on his laptop computer screen. He laughed as he watched Nate try to dry himself with a thin rag not much bigger than a washcloth. “You’ll never learn, will you, man?”
    Nate gave his coworker a good-natured grin as he rubbed his close-cropped hair with the rag. “I always think I can get just one more thing done before it pours, you know?” He turned his head to one side and jabbed a corner of the towel into his ear, then turned his head and dried his other ear.
    He hung up the towel and went to a small shelf in the corner. Picking up a grimy thermos, he shook it gently. “Is there any coffee left?”
    “If you can call it that,” Chambers muttered, already deep into his translation work again.
    Nate poured a stream of the vile brown liquid into his stain-spattered mug and took a sip. “Man!” he complained, giving his head a shake. “How do we drink this stuff day after day?”
    David Chambers looked up and smiled, stroking his neatly trimmed beard and taking a sip from his own cup. “I’ve been telling you, homegrownColombian coffee ought to taste better than this. We’re doing something wrong.”
    “At least it’s hot. So how’s it going today?” Nate asked him, indicating the laptop.
    “Pretty good. I found some great info on that database I downloaded in San José. I’m just starting to sort through it all, but I think it’s something I can really make use of. I want to try to get Tados in here for a few days this week and nail some of the intonations.”
    “Good luck,” Nate said wryly. “You think he’ll agree to that with a fishing expedition on the calendar?”
    David shook his head glumly. “Good point. Oh, hey, don’t forget you’ve got some e-mail.”
    “That’s right! Did you print them out?”
    “No, they’re on the hard drive. Lucretia was griping about their paper supply as it was, and I’d already printed all these word lists.” He patted a stack of wrinkled paper covered in what looked like an alien language. Looking sheepish, David said, “Sorry. I hope that’s okay—”
    Nate stopped him with an upheld hand. “It’s not a problem.