A driving tropical rainstorm woke Juna shortly before dawn. It was a long, sodden miserable hike back to the village. It rained hard most of the day. The footing was treacherous. She slipped and fell several times. In the middle of the afternoon, the rain stopped suddenly, as though it had been cut off by a switch.

They reached the village about an hour later, and went directly to the sick alien’s room. The sick one seemed pleased to see them. It reached out to link with her. Juna pulled away, shaking her head. One of the aliens who had brought her back intervened. A long discussion followed. Juna watched, too tired to try to comprehend what was being said. She wanted a hot meal, a bath, and a soft, comfortable bed, in no particular order.

At last the discussion was over. Another cold meal of fruit, honey, greens, and raw meat was served. Juna looked at the cold, raw food, longing for a hot plate of couscous, or a big bowl of her father’s pea soup. Still it was better than tiny bird corpses, and it beat starving. She ate, poured a couple of gourds of tepid water over herself, and burrowed into the warm, rotting mass of leaves that was her bed. She fell asleep immediately.

The next few days were agonizing. Juna endured an endless round of poking and prodding by curious aliens. They fingered her ears and manipulated her hands, holding them palm to palm against their slender four-fingered hands. Patterns flickered rapidly across their skins as they discussed her.

All of them attempted to link with her. Juna’s guide stopped them, but several times Juna had to fend off the insistent aliens herself.