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Time is against us. Though we haven’t been here long, it seems what we’ve shared with each other is mostly pain. Now Map and I have to go.

Mak makes a request: “Athy, koon, when you go back, ask the cooperative leader to let you come here to take care of Mak, get Mak water. At night you can sleep outside on the bench.” Mak slowly motions her head. “Please don’t forget, koon srey mdaay. Ask Chea to help you talk to the leader. Don’t forget, koon.…”

By now I’ve learned. I’ve seen it so many times. To the dying, you make promises that cannot be kept.

“Cha [Yes], Mak, I won’t forget. When I go back, I’ll tell Chea to help me talk to the cooperative leader. I’ll come back soon.” My mouth forms the words to assure her, then I repeat them again.

“Mak, we’re going.” I don’t want to say good-bye; my throat tightens.

“Hurry and come see Mak again, Athy. You too, koon proh Mak.”

Map says his good-byes, his head turning, eyes wet. Mak doesn’t say “good-bye”—all she says, again and again, is “Come back soon…don’t forget.” I assure her we will, tears falling freely.

The orange sun shines behind us, edging above the horizon. The trip to Daakpo is short, the dirt road now cool beneath our feet. My mind thinks of nothing but Mak.

As Mak has requested, I ask Chea to help me. Together we go to see the cooperative leader. In the open communal shelter, I stand beside Chea as she explains Mak’s situation and her request to the leader. He looks away, listening, then says, “Comrade’s sister can go if comrade’s mother will recuperate from her illness. But if comrade’s mother dies, comrade’s sister will be punished.”

We walk away. Chea’s face burns with anger.

“What should I do, Chea?” My mind summons up images of Mak.

Chea wraps her arm around my shoulders, a warm comfort. Who will get Mak water? How sad will she be, waiting for me and Map to return?

“What about Mak, Chea?” I can’t escape Mak’s words. Her pleas echo in my head.

“When they give us more food,” says Chea, her voice soft and calm, “bang will go to Mak. Bang will tell her that you didn’t forget.”

Through the nights I lie awake, staring into the sheet of darkness thinking about Mak. Her words are clear, still ringing in my ears. The picture of her sitting on the bed is vivid. Her fading flowered blouse, a map, a clue, that marked her as my mother. I gaze at her in my mind, as if looking into a magic mirror. She’s all we’ve got, yet we can’t take care of her.

For several nights her words and pleading continue to echo in my head as if she’s calling to me from afar. But soon starvation and forced labor wring out my energy, blur my mind—I think less and less of Mak. Instead, I think about the scant watery soup ration I get from the communal kitchen, and my own survival.

Angka has ordered the communal kitchen to make noodles with fish soup—a rare luxury we only get when Angka wants us to attend its meetings. For many of us, the meeting simply means a resting day. We don’t have to work, just sit, listening to whatever Angka wants to preach at us. Production. Revolution. Threats. My eyes watch them obediently, but my mind mocks them. I recall the saying I used to hear Mak say: Doch chak tirk leu kbaaltea. “Like pouring water on a duck’s head.” They are wasting their breath.

Within the thatch-roofed shelter, both children and adults sit anxiously waiting at four long wooden benches. The noodles are already cooked, and the warm smell of the fish soup with ground lemongrass, kchiey root, and turmeric powder flows through the shelter. To smell these spices is to sniff heaven. Perhaps it’s nine o’-clock. I have to guess, since none of us own a watch. Suddenly I can hear bodies stirring as we catch a glimpse of the cooks coming toward us, women lugging baskets of noodles and pots of fish soup. They ration the thin white noodles, handing us three draped clumps. I save some of mine, shoving some aside on my plate for Chea to take to Mak. By the time I get back to the hut, Chea and Map have already gone to see Mak, Ra and Ry tell me.