Marion and Indy don't sleep much that first night, high on that stone staircase above the new Amazonian lake. They hold each other, breathing in old fear and new hope, and talk softly of years gone. He apologizes (sort of); so does she. But without speaking it, they feel somehow as if that old edifice of pain, created by both of them, has crashed down just like Akator – still there but washed clean by the rushing river, and they've floated free of the wreckage.
That first night Mutt hisses and huffs, tries to find a comfortable position and fails, and feels strangely miserable until a shadow appears over him. “Move it, Junior,” the deep, husky voice says, and, too groggy to complain, Junior moves. Once he's curled up against his mother with his father's hand just touching his shoulder, he sleeps.
Ox snores peacefully, his madness gone, his task done. Marion's set her foot against his side to keep him safe too.
Below them, against the natural and the carved rocks the river's waves crest white, caught by starlight.
On the way back to New York City, they stop over in Miami for the night. Indy, with a sidelong look at Marion which makes her catch her breath, chooses a nice hotel for them, and deals masterfully with the desk clerk who looks askance at this motley crew.
Four rooms for now, for the proprieties.
It's midnight, after dinner and drinks. In the first room, Ox snores peacefully, madness gone, task done.
The door to the second room shuts. Indy, showered and shaved, in fresh shirt and trousers, walks soft-footed down the hallway to the third room. He manages one quiet knock; the door opens before he can knock a second time.
“Jones,” Marion says softly, and draws him inside and shuts the door. Then, her bare arms encircling him, she draws him further inside, toward the bed. “We have to be quiet.”
“I can be quiet,” he says, and his mouth covers hers.
“Missed you,” one of them says during a breath, and “Love you,” one of them says, and then their words swirl together like rushing rivers of old fear and new hope. The two of them are still whispering when she draws him in all the way.
In the fourth room, Mutt sits alone on the balcony overlooking the flat sand and the ocean. The radio's on – new song, two singers, telling each other how love is strange. He looks out at the white-crested sea reflecting neon and starshine, and throws his switchblade over and over, lets it catch the light too. He's smiling to himself. He'll be able to sleep tonight just fine.