The Adjustment
Tia arrived like a storm dropped into the middle of my silence.
The jungle had been mine; every sound, every shadow, every breath. For a thousand days I answered to no one. Then suddenly, I had to answer to a girl. Ten years old. Barely spoke above a whisper. And every time I looked at her, the necklace around her neck stabbed me with Rosa's memory.
I wasn't built for this. I could strip and clean a rifle blindfolded, but I couldn't braid hair. I could ration food for a month, but I had no idea what a child should eat. I could plan an ambush in the dark, but I didn't know how to read a bedtime story.
The first nights were the hardest. She wouldn't sleep. Neither would I. Every rustle in the jungle had her wide-eyed, clutching that necklace like it was a shield. I tried telling her to toughen up, that fear doesn't keep you alive, discipline does. She just stared at me with Rosa's eyes, and I felt my words fall apart.
I burned our first meal. She laughed. Actually laughed. The sound was like breaking glass in my chest. I hadn't heard laughter in years. Not mine, not anyone's. I wanted to tell her to stop. But I couldn't.
Days blurred into weeks. I taught her to track animals, set traps, tie knots. She taught me patience. I showed her how to aim a slingshot, she showed me how to draw flowers in the dirt. She was light in a place I had chosen to be dark.
Every night, when she finally fell asleep, I sat awake, staring at the fire, asking the same question:
Rosa, what am I supposed to do?
But even without an answer, I already knew. I had to keep her safe. Whether I liked it or not, the girl was my mission now.