It had been six days. For six days they had wandered through the jungle. In the wrong direction. Away from their camp. Away from the rescue teams who were searching for them. Deeper into the remote heart of the jungle [Amazon]. The canopy of trees overhead allowed no light through. They only knew night came when the rains did. They were left soaked to the bone. They did their best to huddle in a ball to stay warm until it passed, but every time, they were left soaked to the bone. Shivering. Unable to speak. Unable to think. Forgetting. What it was like to not be there. The rains were deafening. Each thunderous clap reduced their resolve. They were slowly losing their grip on sanity. C was slipping deeper into depression, continuously insisting on seeing the hunting knife. She needed to know it was there. To hold it. To know she still held control over her own life. Her own death. The blisters on her feet were now large, open bloody wounds. With every step she was stabbing them further open.