The Lower River   (page 9)  Altman’s tongue was so swollen when
he woke that he could barely breathe. He was still clothed, on
his string bed in the hut.  “Chief.” It was Manyenga, murmuring
the word.  Zizi was there, too, creeping toward him with the
same kind of enamel cup that the dwarf had offered him. Altman
raised himself and drank, expecting water, but it was thick and
salty—soup. Throughout the day, he lapped at it; he sensed it
easing his throat, seeping into his flesh, his body greedy for
the salt.  In the morning, he sat up with a clearer head and
pulled out the basket that he’d shoved under his bed. He knew
before he opened it that all the money was gone.  The spell of
dehydration had made him watchful. He sat for the rest of the
day in the shade of his veranda, moving only to slap at flies.
As the sun dropped to the level of the trees at the edge of the
clearing, he snapped a branch from the tree that overhung his
hut and made himself a new stick. Followed by Zizi and the
dwarf, he walked along t