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I freeze.

“Come, follow me. It’s okay.”

I slip out the door and there is Sun, already stepping off the stairs. I shake as I step down. Once on the ground, Sun pulls me behind a tree. “They’re still at the warehouse,” he whispers. “When I say go, run. Don’t cry if you trip.” His eyes ask, Do you understand?

“I won’t fall,” I say, shaking my head, but my tears betray me.

From tree to tree, thicket to thicket, I run with him at his prompting. Then all of a sudden he says, “I’m going back. I can only help you this far. Be careful.”

I watch him disappear. I cry and I’m scared. I pray to God and the spirits of Mak and Pa to protect me. I say the prayer silently, chanting it again and again in my head. As if I am being guided by a spirit, suddenly my fears fade, and my mind focuses on returning safely to my zone. My body feels light, comforted as I hike through the woods and climb the bank onto the bridge, leaving Zone 3 behind.

Safe on the ground of my zone, I turn to look at the grove of trees where the warehouse and hut are. A place where a good memory was born. A memory of kind men and Ra, who brought me to them.

11

A Promise

It is late 1977. For some reason I am sent to a new camp in a stretch of large rice paddies along with a group of children. Like many labor camps, it is as anonymous as the people who work in them. I don’t know where we are or what this place is called. From dawn to dusk, I chase birds away from the ripening rice. Now it is midmorning and the sun is shining, and the day is now bearable, warm.

But early in the morning I’m always cold since the shirt I have on is inadequate to shield me from the cool air. The one other shirt I have is at the shack, which I keep for changing into the next day. The morning dew from the grassy elevated pathways coats my bare feet, making the morning almost unbearable.

As the sun shines, I unfold my arms from my armpits like a chick being hatched. Standing up, I fidget, my hands rubbing against each other, my mouth blowing warm air at them. On the distant horizon, amid rice paddies, I see the silhouettes of adults heading out to harvest. It looks as though their heads are floating on the rice stalks.

Just as humans rise to work, so do birds, ready to start their day. Already they are up, flying like black waves. They maneuver over rice paddies as if trying to select the right ones to feast on. As soon as they land, children whose assigned fields are being invaded run toward the birds. Their heads bob between the heads of the rice. They give chase. They shout “Shoo! Shoo!” Their little arms flail in the air.

The birds take off, making fierce chirping sounds as they fly to other rice fields—mine. Then I too run toward them. “Shoo! Shoo!” I shout, joined by a chorus of other children. My hands thrown in the air to scare them.

Laughter erupts in the air as the birds fly from rice paddy to rice paddy. Now it is like a game of land-and-chase. They chirp, we laugh. Beads of sweat roll down my forehead. Our laughter is food for my soul. It has been a long time since I had some. I feel revived—like a little girl again, the thirteen-year-old that I am.

With improved food rations, better than in the village, I think of my family, wishing they were here. Every night I wish fervently that they could enjoy what I’ve been having: steamed rice and soup with fish and vegetables. I wonder where Ra is now, whether she is still at that camp bordering Zone 3, or whether she has been transferred elsewhere. I wish Avy, Vin, Pa, and Mak were still alive. Mak would have been happy just to have rice and salt. “Having solid rice and salt is like going to heaven,” I remember her saying, her eyes filled with longing.

As the night sets in, lying on my earthen bed made of a pile of hay in a small shack, I think of Mak. Images of her pale, swollen face at the Choup hospital pop into my head as in a dream. It seems only days ago when Map and I visited her, and now she’s gone. Since I feel better, my mind allows me to go back in