He wipes himself, dropping the used leaves on his stool. She squats where he did. He hands her the remainder of the leaves. He leans against the chattering tree while she checks the wound in his haunch. Her thumbs press along either side, prodding, until he throws his head back and makes a silent, white-toothed grimace.
Today there's discharge.
Using the side of her foot, she covers their piles with dirt. He distributes the fronds, sticking them back in the trees they had last night pulled them from. The last frond she uses as a broom, sweeping out every trace of their stay before replacing it. Their eyes meet. They listen for a moment, trying to pick up any sound which doesn't belong in the jungle.