ON 10 DECEMBER, GUSTAVO AND I spoke with concern about Numa. ‘He asked me to check a sore on his backside,’ Gustavo said, ‘and I got a look under his clothes. There is no flesh at all on his bones. He can’t last more than a couple of days.’ I left Gustavo and knelt at Numa’s side. ‘How are you feeling, Numa?’ Numa smiled weakly. ‘I don’t think it will be much longer for me.’ I saw a look of acceptance in his eyes. He was facing his death with courage, and I did not want to dishonour this by telling him lies. ‘Try to hold on,’ I said. ‘We’ll be climbing soon. We are going west, at last.’
