Jerry
Guatemala, Feb., 1983
The smell was thick as sludge, and rancid. It forced an intake of breath, and Jerry wanted to pinch his nostrils shut and run out of the hut.
He struggled to ignore it, but the stench dropped into his throat and lodged there. When he tried to swallow, he coughed instead.
“Agua?” He turned to the Mayan behind him. “Por favor?”
The man nodded while continuing to talk to his wife