I felt so far from home, so afraid, so alone. I wanted my mother.

I wanted my father. I wanted him to be healthy and normal, so he could be my dad again and I wouldn't be standing here half a world away too exhausted to stand but about to pee my pants.

What if I just peed right outside my door? No, no, no, if Modesta or anyone saw me it would be unforgivably rude.

Hey...I eyed the plastic bag already full of baby wipes. Why not? Wouldn't the wipes absorb it? Desperate times called for desperate measures. I'd done worse in my life after all.

It worked pretty well, actually, and it was one of those blessed, wonderful I've-held-it-too-long pees that felt so amazingly good I wanted to put it on my reasons to be happy list! Ahh...

I tied the bag, knotting it tight. I'd be sure to get it to the trash in the morning.

Feeling giddy with relief, I pulled back the mosquito netting on the bed. The weariness clung deep down in my bones. Sleep was going to be sweet indeed.

The bed was on the small side. To remain under the mosquito net, I couldn't extend my legs. Oh well. I laid on my back, knees bent, arms crossed over my chest, clutching my flashlight. I turned the flashlight off. I was so tired, I could have slept in a back bend if I had to.

I closed my eyes.

Sweat trickled through my hair.

The air seemed to simmer. And it was suddenly so noisy.

An entire universe of insects conducted a symphony outside, chirping, whirring, droning.

The whole forest come alive with drips, creaks, cracks, and rattles.

Another of those piercing shrieks.

I am never going to sleep.

But, apparently, I did.

I know I slept because a hideous heart-in-your-mouth noise yanked me awake.

A goat.

A goat that sounded like he had a microphone and was in my room! I swear. I turned on my flashlight and shone it around the room.

He baaed again.

Oh.

My.

G.o.d.

He was so loud. He must be right outside one of my windows!

I turned off my flashlight and pretzled my sweaty self back into my contorted position.

The goat continued yelling. Another goat, somewhere else in the village, began to answer.

They had quite the heated, insistent conversation. I checked the room again with a flashlight because I swore the one goat sounded like he was there, right next to me. If the floor hadn't been dirt I would've bet a million dollars that he was directly under the house.

The goats continued their debate for forty minutes. I timed them. Somehow, miraculously, I got used to them, or was completely drained enough to drift off to damp, stinky sleep...

I woke with a shriek when the bed moved beneath me. I dropped my flashlight and then scrambled in panic, hands fumbling over the sheets to find it, hoping not to land on anything unexpected. The bed moved again-creaking and moving side to side-as something b.u.mped it from underneath. Something was in here! Something was in the room with me! I found the flashlight and stood on the bed, draped in netting, turning the light on in time to see a black-and-white goat crawl on his knees out from under the oilcloth drape.

The goat was in the room with me. There'd been a goat under my bed!

He clicked to the door on his cloven hooves, then bleated again.

The goat b.u.t.ted the door with his curled horns as if to make the point, clear as any house-trained dog, that he wanted out, thank you very much.

I collapsed cross-legged on the bed, one hand on my heart.

He kept yelling. How could anyone else in the house sleep? Why didn't Modesta come running at the sound of him banging his head on the door?

Finally, exasperated, not knowing what else to do, I opened the door and let the goat out. He trotted away into the rainy darkness.

I locked the door and checked under the bed for any other surprises (there were none). As soon as I'd crawled back into bed, another one of those blood-curdling screams came from the jungle. Oh no! Great. Just great. Had I just allowed one of the orphans' goats to be slaughtered by wild animals? Modesta would really love me now.

I obsessed over that little goat, certain I'd find its mutilated body in the dawn's early light.

Somehow, from utter exhaustion, I dissolved into sleep again. My dreams were full of b.l.o.o.d.y goat heads.

BANG!.

I was on my feet, wrapped in mosquito netting, flashlight on.

BANG!.

Over my head. The ceiling was falling in! I pictured some huge creature tearing the roof off, trying to kill me.

BANG, BANG, BANG! Then several lesser taps, then a clatter.

Then a chatter. A chi-chi-chi, reminding me of a squirrel.

The monkeys.

The monkeys were on the roof.

I checked my watch. It was 4 a.m.

Feeling beat up, I crumpled yet again back on the bed (the netting such a giant mess there was no hope of me fixing it by myself), but the monkeys were just warming up. There may as well have been a troupe of tap dancers doing a recital above my head.

At 5 a.m., I gave up. I wiped my drenched self down again (didn't have to pee now, having sweated all liquid out of my body during the night) and dressed.

When I stepped outside, the fresh air felt like receiving a gift.

To my surprise, several people were already up and going about their business. Many women had cook fires going in their yards.

I found Aunt Izzy with Modesta and another girl out front, already tending to something cooking in a pot. Several red chickens and three goats wandered near them. I thought I identified my buddy-the one with black and white spots.

Aunt Izzy hugged me. "You weren't lonesome, were you?" she asked. "All alone?"

I burst out laughing, which made Modesta c.o.c.k her close-cropped head at me. "Oh, I wasn't alone," I said. I gestured to the goats. "I hope it's all right that I let the goat out last night."

Modesta nodded, no apology, no explanation. Just a nod that said, Of course. What a silly question.

I couldn't stop giggling. My terror from last night seemed absurd now. I'd been petrified. But I'd done it. I'd done something scary, and I'd survived.

"Did you sleep well?" Modesta asked.

I thought again of my private room, of the other rooms lined with mattresses and beds, of the sacrifice and effort to give me such a gracious gift. "Very well," I lied. "Thank you so much."

She beamed at me, her somber face transformed.

"I am glad," she said. "You shall stay with us again."

There was nothing to say but "thank you."

We were distracted by Rafael and another boy emerging from my room with my tied-shut trash bag. "We will take away your trash for you, sister," Rafael announced, already beginning to untie the top of the bag. I remembered the children rooting through our trash the day before.

"No, no, that's all right!" I s.n.a.t.c.hed the bag from him, my face red.

I guess I couldn't get too c.o.c.ky about my newfound bravery. I was still too scared for them to discover my pee-soaked baby wipes.

A week later, I stood at the village pump with a fuming Modesta. She waited for a late child to arrive for a bath (she'd already supervised the scrubbing of three others). I looked at Modesta's blazing eyes and felt bad for adorable Englebert, the guilty party.

She paced, barefooted, on the packed earth.

I flipped through the photos I'd taken on my digital camera. I'd also filmed a couple movies, and I played one back of Modesta leading the smaller children in a song with lots of clapping.

She shook her head when she heard her own voice. "Why would anyone care what I have to say?" I knew she was talking about Aunty Izzy's doc.u.mentary, not my little film.

"Lots of people should," I said. "You're a strong, tough survivor."

"What else is there to do but survive?" she asked, her question genuine. She slapped a towel over her shoulder and scowled down the street.

Ekuba and Beauty strolled up to the pump to fill buckets with water. "Good morning, sister," we all said to each other.

The day before, Beauty had taught me how to feed mangos to the monkeys, much to the delight of the younger orphans. Beauty and Ekuba also brushed my hair and braided it with beads and tiny sh.e.l.ls. I'm sure it looked ridiculous-Modesta had laughed out loud when she'd seen it.

When the girls carried their water away, Modesta resumed her pacing. "I will have to go get that boy myself. He never minds!"

"Give him five more minutes," I said. "It's a nice morning. Where else do we have to be?"

Modesta c.o.c.ked her head at me, pretending to be annoyed, but she couldn't help lifting her face to the sun and smiling.

I continued flipping through my photos. I had several I was proud of, several that Aunt Izzy had asked permission to use. She'd even had me record with a real film camera a few times.

I came across my favorite candid picture of Modesta. She crouched, bare feet flat on the ground, knees up by her ears in her flexible Gumby-like way. Her left elbow was on her left knee but her hand rose to her face, her cheek leaning into her open palm.

Her skin, short burgundy hair, and muted purple dress blended into the shadowy dusk behind her, so her huge, haunting eyes leapt out of the photo, the brightest visual in the shot.

I thought she was stunning in this picture, so thin, angular, and flexible. Her mind clearly elsewhere, she looked unveiled, her face so open.

"I love this picture of you," I said. "I'm going to print this one and keep it. I'll send you one."

She came close to me to look. When she saw it, she wrinkled her nose.

"Ach," she said, holding up a hand as if to shield her view. "That is a horrible picture!"

"What? You're kidding, right? You look like a supermodel!"

She made a face like she would spit.

"Modesta, are you serious? What's wrong with this picture? You look gorgeous."

She barked a harsh laugh. "I am too scrawny, too weak. My legs and arms look like that pile of sticks there." She pointed to a bundle of kindling.

"Modesta, you're lean, not weak. You look fit and strong."

She eyed me, lips pursed. "No, fit and strong is like you." She gestured to my legs. "I want legs like yours."

It was my turn to wrinkle my nose. "I'm fat, Modesta. You don't want my fat b.u.t.t."

She whooped with laughter, then her smile vanished and her cold, stern look returned. "Fat? Ha! You can't call yourself fat," she sounded almost scolding, as if I'd been bragging. "Now Beauty, she is fat. You are strong, though. Your...b.u.t.t looks like you can run fast."

I nodded. "I am fast."

She shook her head, eyes twinkling as if amused. "Fat," she repeated. She snorted.

"Beauty is beautiful," I said, hating how corny it sounded but wanting to defend her.

Modesta nodded.

"But you just said she was fat."

Modesta's brow furrowed. "You make no sense, Hah-nah. She is beautiful because she is not a stick person like me."

Oh. So me saying I was fat out loud like that had sounded like I was being a diva, like I'd said "I'm gorgeous" or something.

I laughed.