My mother had shoved the boat into the water that day. She didn't want to do it, but the choice was not hers. As a woman, she brought life into the tribe; my father, a Takunami male, made the decision of death.

“Do not be afraid,” she said, cupping my chin in her hands. “It is the honorable way.”

I had nodded and put on my hunting face.

“If only your body was as strong as your spirit.” She ducked her head to wipe her tears and dragged the boat to the water. “But this is my fault, not yours, and I too will pay.” Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the rising sun and silently begged me not to make her ask,
so I did it on my own. I shuffled over to my wooden coffin and climbed in.

The jungle was respectfully quiet, as it often is when something bigger than itself happens. And although dying is common in the rain forest, a mother sending her child to his death is not. So with its many eyes and ears, the jungle sat back and watched as Maha pushed me into the dark, whirling waters of the mighty river.

I sat cross-legged in the hollowed-out tree and lifted my chin. As the current nudged the boat away, a low-hanging branch scratched my face, but I didn't flinch. This was how I wanted her to remember me.

Deep in the forest a baby
yanuti
squawked in hunger. Its mother flew over me, shushing it with her flapping wings, but the moment was past. My moment. Maha turned and started back toward the village. It was as if I never was.

Although I was very young, I remember every detail in color. It was my sixth birthday.

My name is Tirio and I am thirteen years old. Well, almost thirteen. I was born to the Takunami tribe in the Amazonâa tribe the world knows little about. Now, more than anything, I want to go back. I want to prove to my father that I am strong enough to be a Takunami man.

LUKA

M
y name is Luka. I do not know who my father is. Gods willing, I will know in only a few more settings of the sun. I belong to the Takunami, the strongest people in the jungle. That is not a boast; it is the truth. The other tribes would agree if you were to ask them. How is that so? From the strongest men come the strongest offspringâand we have the strongest men. In order to become one, you must prove yourself to be powerful not only in body, but also in mind.

In our tribe, no child is told who his
paho
is until the first son of the family passes the
soche seche tente
âthe sixth-sense test. Two days before I turn thirteen, I will be abandoned in the depths of the jungle with nothing but my sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell to defend myself. Having honed these five senses since
I was born, I must trust my body to act on instinct and open my mind to the sixth sense. The father whom I have never met will send me signals. I will use these visions and voices to find my way home before the sun fully rises on my birthday.

If I fail, I will forever be banned from the village; since I have no brothers, my mother must drink tea from the
ku-ku-pa
tree and try for another son.

It has been my mother's duty to prepare me. She fed me special berries, bark, plants, and herbs given to us by the medicine manâTukkita, the shaman. She even ate them herself when I fed from her breast. My family has made many sacrifices the past thirteen years for the promise of this new life. If I pass, all of us will benefit: my mother will be welcomed into the
urahas
, the group of women who have successfully raised a son to become a warrior; my sisters will be allowed to marry and have children of their own; and IâI will be accepted into the tribe as a warrior. As I think about how close we are to that day, I push my chest out and pull my shoulders back like the bow I hunt with. I must not fail. I am readyâready for the test, ready to meet my paho, ready to become a Takunami man.

CHAPTER ONE
TIRIO

12 Years, 357 Days
The United States

H
e's going to fake left.

The boy with the number one on his jersey fakes left.

I crouch protectively in the goal area as he dribbles the soccer ball closer. With only a few minutes left, the Miami Mavericks are relying on this boy, their captain, to tie the game. Number eleven is open. Captain Maverick positions himself to pass.

“Hey!” Coach Smalley yells, flailing his arms. “Who's got eleven? Someone cover eleven!”

My best friend, Joey, steals the ball, but Captain Maverick regains control and opens himself up again.

Like a hunter trying to figure out which way his prey is going to bolt, I focus on the shift in the boy's muscles and the darting of his eyes. Is he going to pass or shoot?

His teammate, number eleven, inches closer.

Coach Smalley runs along the boundary line. “Left, Tirio! Watch your left!”

I start to move, but something makes me stop and step back. Captain Maverick's not going to pass.

My eyes search the boy for signs to back up my hunch. Nothing. Four boys guard him now. Eleven stands alone, waiting.

Coach is screaming at me to watch eleven.

Instead, I keep my gaze locked on the boy with the ball.

The captain faces number eleven, rears back his legâand, at the last minute, pivots his body toward me and shoots.

Without stuttering in either direction, I catch the ball and torpedo it out of the goal area. The ref blows the whistle. Game over.

I hear Sara's signature whoop and see her standing on the bleachers, giving me a double thumbs-up. I return the gesture.

“Unbelievable.” Joey runs up and high-fives me. “How did you know he was going to do that?”

I grin uneasily as my teammates slap me on the back. “I just had this feeling. It was kind of weird actually, Iâ”

“Weird, shmeirdâ¦who cares? We're going to the
championships!” he crows, throwing his arms in the air as we jog over to shake the other team's hands. “How's the foot?”

“Good.” I lower my voice and look for Sara in the crowd. “I'm not even wearing my brace.”

“Why not?” Joey asks. “After the way you played, Coach is gonna keep you as goalie, brace or not.”

“It's not about Coach,” I say as we walk toward the parking lot. “I just don't need it, that's all.”

Joey gives me a sidelong glance. “If it's not about Coach, then who's it about?”

“I told you,” I say, irritated. “I don't need it.”

“This isn't about your dad, is it?” he asks. “About proving him wrong? He's not here to see you, T, so I don't know why you're risking getting reinjuredâ”

“Yeah, well, speaking of dads,” I snap, “I didn't see yours in the stands.”

My friend turns to look at me with a hurt expression.

Hanging my head, I regret my words. I know Joey was watching for his father the entire game. Mr. Carter's an airline pilot and although he always promises to be here, he hasn't seen Joey play once all season. “Delayed flight” or “bad weather” are the excuses he always gives.

I look up at the perfectly blue sky and bite my tongue.

We've finally reached the parking lot, and Joey's mom
waves at us from her car. Joey storms away.

“Hey, I'm sorry.” I hurry to catch up with him. “I'm sure your dad will be here for the championships, Joe. No way he'd miss that.” I grin to show him I'm not mad anymore. “And if he doesn't, who needs him? We'll win anyway, right?”

Climbing into the car, he grabs his earbuds from his backpack and puts them on. “You know what, Tirio? Maybe that's the way they do things in the Amazon, but it's not the way we do things here.”

Bull's-eye. Best friends always know where to hit you the hardest.

“I'm not like them,” I mumble, as Joey slams the door. “I'm not.” The wind blows my words back to me like a butterfly. A pierid butterfly.
I'm not like themâ¦.

I close my eyes and my life rewinds to when I was five. My first hunting lesson with the Takunami warrior Wata. I had just pointed out a
pauq-pauq
bird that was camouflaged in the brush when Wata cupped his hand around his ear. His eyes grew big and he sprinted away, waving silently for me to follow. I loped after him but tripped over my bad foot and fell.

Trying not to cry, I untangled myself and limped toward my teacher. Fifty paces ahead, I found him staring
at a flock of pale yellow pierid butterflies drinking at the river.

Without acknowledging my presence, he squatted and pulled a pierid out of the group. Holding its body gently, he plucked one wing and returned the insect to the ground. I forced myself to watch, knowing this must be a very important lesson. Gradually the forest got darker, but Wata didn't move. I bit my tongue to ignore my throbbing foot. Suddenly, the butterflies flew away, all except the pierid with the missing wing. It lay still, and I was sure it was dead.

“Wataâ¦”

He silenced me with narrowed eyes. Finally he nodded. A horned frog hopped out of the forest and ogled the butterfly. The pierid fluttered frantically, but the frog jumped twice and snapped it up. Without a word, my teacher stood and started back to the village; the hunting lesson was over. I followed him and as I passed by the frog, I searched for a stick to kill it, but Wata looked back and I hurried to catch up.

Lying in my hammock that night, I couldn't sleep. Although I was excited about what I had learned, uneasiness hung over me like early morning fog.
The pierid
. Was Wata showing me that as a hunter I should go for the weakest, injured animal? Orâ¦was he showing
me how similar I was to the one-winged butterfly? How I too had no chance to survive in the Amazon?

Sara walks over and puts her arm around my shoulders, bringing me back to the present. “What just happened between you and Joey?” she asks, her face concerned.

“Nothing.” I grab my duffel bag, throw it into the back-seat of the Jeep, and climb in.

She slides into the driver's side but doesn't put the key in the ignition.

I roll down the window and lean out, letting her know I don't want to talk.

Sighing, she rummages through her tote bag at my feet and pulls out a magazine. Before she opens it, I see the cover:
Anthropology Today
. Flipping through it, she stops at a dog-eared page and tosses the magazine onto my lap.

“I brought this for you from work.” She starts the car and deftly maneuvers it through the mass of vehicles trying to leave the field.

Sara teaches anthropology at the University of Miami. When she found me, she'd been living in Brazil doing research for a book, but we'd moved to Florida as soon as my adoption papers came through. She'd said
three years was enough time to get the information she needed, but I think she came back here for meâfor the medical treatment.

I read the title splayed across the two-page spread of the magazine: “Jungle Boys Liveâ¦and Die to Become Men.” Six half-naked brown figures pose in front of the swirling river. The three boys in the front stand at attention, two of them wide-eyed while the third smiles slightly. Behind them, holding spears and challenging the photographer with cocked chins, stand the boys' fathers. If they didn't have the bowl haircuts of the well-known Piuchi, these men could be Takunami. I feel a stab of jealousy.

The wheels of the Jeep squeal as Sara turns onto the main road. “You've never really talked about what your tribe doesâ¦” She trails off. I remain quiet, knowing she won't push.

I'm right.

She nods and looks forward. “I just thought it might be interestingâwith your birthday and our trip both coming up.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, and close the magazine. “I'll read it later.” She's right; the timing is strangely coincidental. Next week Sara and I leave together for the
Amazonâher for a follow-up research expedition, me as a thirteenth-birthday present. It will be the first time either of us has been back in seven years.

We stop at a gas station to get fuel. When Sara turns off the engine and opens the door, I hear frogs croaking in the distance. Ever since that hunting trip with Wata, I've hated frogs.

Slowly, I open the magazine again.

I scan over the first page of the article. Most of it is stuff I already know: the Piuchi boys have one dayâtheir thirteenth birthdayâto track and kill a wild boar, but when I read again how they can take a bow and arrow, as well as a knife, on their quest, I shake my head. The Takunamis are only allowed the power of our bodies and minds to pass the soche seche tente. Looking down at my bad foot, I press my heel into the floorboard and flex my toes. My leg muscles pop to attention, round and strong. I tighten my quadriceps harder and, for a second, wonder what would happen if I tried to take the test now.

The gas pump clicks off and I quickly look around. I see Sara inside the store waiting in line, but no one else is nearby.

I turn the page, and what I see makes my heart stop. In the right corner of the article is a photo of a boy crouching in the dirt. He's gripping a stick and his head
is bowed as if he doesn't want to be photographed. Unlike the other picture, there is no father standing behind him. The accompanying caption reads, “The boys are willing to risk injury, even death, in order to prove themselves.”

The car door opens and Sara grins as she hops in. “Here.” She hands me a sports drink and my favorite ice-cream bar. “A reward for my all-star goalie.”

I take them from her and manage a smile. “Thanks.”

“What do you think?” she asks, nodding at the open magazine and snapping her seat belt closed. “Good stuff, huh?”

“Yeah. Good stuff.” I stare at the crouching boy. The photo had been cropped, so only half of him made it into the shot; he's missing an arm and a leg. I remember the pierid. I remember the horned frog.
Be strong, Piuchi boy,
I think.
I've seen what the world does to the weak. It'll eat you alive.

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