A tall, wide wooden shelf broke the entrance to the shack, the equivalent of both door and wall that offered Dzung’s family some privacy from the street. On top of the shelf was a sand bowl with a half dozen burnt joss sticks sticking up like spent candles on a tiny cake. Around the bowl were nine pictures, most of them young men, some in military uniforms. At the center of this family shrine were old pictures of a man and woman. They sat formally next to each other in traditional ao dais, staring at the camera with dignified, solemn expressions. Condley knew from his earlier conversations that the pictures around the shrine were all that was left of Dzung’s family.

“Cha, me,” said Dzung with quiet pride as he pointed to the older pictures, indicating they were of his mother and father.

Condley heard the uncertain wails of a tiny infant from behind the wall and followed Dzung inside. The home was dark, narrow, cluttered. Its ceiling was so low that Condley had to bend his head once inside. Other than three wooden beds, its furnishings included only two small stools. On one bed a little boy was sleeping in the stifling heat, curled into the fetal position. Just behind the wall itself, underneath a drab mosquito net, lay Dzung’s wife and newest child.

“My wife,” said Dzung almost hopefully. His eyes moved constantly behind his smile, studying Condley and then Muir for clues. “Baby.”

“How many children do you have?” asked Muir, his head moving this way and that as he absorbed the surroundings of Dzung’s home. Despite its squalor, Muir seemed to view the tiny room as an oasis, a refuge from the turmoil outside.

“Five already,” smiled Dzung. He looked over at his wife and then quietly added a personal, secret boast. “I am very good fucker.”

Even Professor Muir laughed at that, although his eyes betrayed a slight discomfort with Dzung’s crudity.

The heat was oppressive, making the air dank and moldy. Condley walked slowly to the bed. Dzung’s wife, Tu, was smiling bravely, but he could feel her exhaustion as certainly as he felt the heat. She slowly lifted the mosquito net, holding her newest child up for him to see. He touched the baby’s head, stroking it and smiling back to her. The smile required conscious effort, a quiet repudiation of his anger. The baby was naked, thin and listless, covered with a mild rash. He looked as if he might die at any moment.