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The hot road burns our feet. I carry Map until I’m too exhausted. Drawn by his cries, an old woman stops us to give us cool water. I’m struck by her kindness, which helps give me the courage to continue our journey. We reach an old, worn-down barn, surrounded by greenery, where a family has planted vegetables in front and in back of their hut. In front of the barn, there are rows of corn, pumpkin, and yucca root plants. But something is wrong. There is a reeking odor, like the stench from a field scattered with feces from cases of dysentery and diarrhea.

“Thy, na Mak [where is Mak]?” Map inquires, his voice quivering with apprehension.

As we approach the doorless barn, the pungent smell intensifies. The sound of groaning greets us. Walking ahead of Map, I hold his hand as we enter the barn. In the muted light, we’re met by the sight of pale, swollen people, perhaps thirty of them, lying on bare, rusty metal beds lining the wall. Patients are crammed into the aisle between two rows of beds, perhaps twelve of them, separated from each other only by a few feet. They lie on the dirty earthen floor, some on plastic sheeting, others on filthy clothes. Under the beds near them are flies swarming over runny feces pooled on the floor. The flies settle on eyes, on wounds, around nostrils, on the sides of mouths, gorging on human filth, on the dying.

I peer from one bed to the next looking for our mother, but I can’t find her. I pull Map’s hand, guiding him down the aisle. He is rigid with shock; it is like pulling a bag of rice. Slowly I study each patient. Even though it horrifies me to be here, my eyes take it all in—snapshots of the sickness and the filth and the crowding—yet I can’t find my own mother.

“Thy, na Mak?” Map begins to cry. “Na Mak?” Again and again he repeats it, his voice on the verge of hysteria.

Finally I answer, “I don’t know.”

A little girl scurries toward us. She says, “Bang, she’s your mom.” She points. For a few seconds my eyes fix on her face.

Who is she? How does she know my mother? And me?

“She’s over there,” the girl says, pointing again, her urgent voice snapping me to reality.

I follow her finger, and I see a frail woman sitting on a bare rusty bed. Her forehead rests on her knee, her face is pale and her swollen eyelids closed. That’s not Mak! I turn to the girl, searching for reassurance. She looks at me, then at the swollen woman. I study the frail, ailing woman again, then recognize the clothes she wears.

“Thy, Mak?” Map pulls me, but I’m trapped by what I see, a nightmare.

“Yes, Mak yurg [our mother],” I softly answer, then my hand opens, freeing Map’s fingers from my grip. My eyes fall on her floral blouse with its once-brilliant pink hibiscus and green leaves. Now old, the flowers have faded to a flat, muddy gray-brown.

Mak slowly raises her head from her knee, her ears tracking our voices.

“Koon srey Mak, koon srey Mak. Koon proh meas mdaay [My beloved son]. My little son. Come to me, little son. I miss you so very much.”

“Mak.” Map reaches out to our mother, both of his hands holding her arm, his eyes gazing at her face.

Mak embraces him, her swollen arm slipping as if it is too heavy.

“Mak, I’m Thy,” I say, staring at her bulging eyelids. I’m afraid she can’t see me. It is like studying a contorted version of my mother’s face—the stretched, pale face of an obese person, indentations where her temples are, her hair sticking up like tough wire. Her movements are slow and heavy, like those of a very old woman. Instead of asking her questions, I look at her. My jaws are locked, I struggle for words to fit what I see. For I know I am looking at death. I have to say something to her to give her hope, even if it can never be fulfilled. At least she can cherish it for the moment.

“I wanted to bring Map to see you, Mak.” The words slide out of my mouth. I want to comfort her, to make her feel better. I settle on words that seem so ordinary in this strange place. “I’ve brought you corn on the cob, and I also made you tamarind paste. Mak, you’d like