“Ah, Mr. Condley, Mr. Muir,” said Quyen. He smiled brightly, rubbing his hands in front of his dark, narrow face as if each of these Americans were holding up a Buddha to be prayed to. “It is my great pleasure to welcome you to Ninh Phuoc. Come with me, come with me.”

The dank air and clinging mud of the village were like a welcoming remembrance. Ghosts walked beside Condley on the muddy trails, dirty and unshaven, burdened by helmets and packs and weapons, loping tiredly, all parts of their bodies half asleep while their eyes stayed bright with fear. The ghosts would always be there, young-faced and yearning, even as time itself erased the evidence of their passing. It was a burden rather than a talent that Condley could walk a village trail and be in two time zones at once, the past just as fresh as today.

Condley could smell cook fires and the twists of homegrown tobacco as he followed Quyen down the muddy path in the center of the village, the odors emanating from little shacks that were hidden down dark trails to his left and right. Children crowded round him and Muir, jabbering excitedly to one another, never having seen a Caucasian before this moment. They fingered the hair on his wrists. They touched his pale skin. They looked with wonder at his skylike, molten eyes. Suddenly Condley began teasing the children in Vietnamese, and they burst into collective, appreciative laughter.

He passed rows of flimsily built thatch homes, nearing the center of the village. The waterbulls were tethered in their stench-filled pens, lest they make a false step in the mud and be washed away by the river. Ugly little dogs barked and sniffed. Smiling, curious faces peeked out from shadowed doorways. It was all familiar. Nothing had changed except the war. And the knowledge that he was looking at it through the eyes of that which had already happened. But at least, he thought, already-happened was better than never-was.

Condley teased Muir as they walked the dark paths in the center of the ancient village. “You know how to say dog in Vietnamese, Hanson?”

“I suppose this is going to be funny.”

“‘Dinner.’”

“They don’t really eat them.”

“You know when we had ‘wild deer’ the other night in that restaurant in Da Nang?”

“I think I know what you’re going to say.”

“You had ‘filet of mongrel dog.’”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just did.”