At the center of the village, Quyen halted before a larger, stone house. The house was covered by a corrugated tin roof, rather than the usual thatch. From its size, its tin roof, and the two sheds in the yard, Condley knew that this was where the village chief lived. Glass had not yet made its way to Ninh Phuoc. The house’s window boards had been opened from the inside. As Condley caught up with Quyen he could see shadows moving underneath a single bare lightbulb that was hanging on a wire from the main room’s ceiling.

“Electricity,” said Condley. “Now, there’s progress.”

Quyen smiled, gesturing with an arm, indicating they should walk inside. “Yes,” he said through his insistent happiness. “Electricity. Here in Ninh Phuoc, two years already!”

The village chief watched them carefully as they entered. The chief, a tough-looking man of about sixty, had arranged two small wooden tables at the center of his open-windowed entry room. A cracked porcelain pot was on one table, flanked by two small trays holding ten little teacups. The teacups were turned upside down on the trays. Next to the teacups on each tray was a pack of Vietnamese-brand cigarettes. To the chief’s right, sitting on small wooden stools, were five old men. In other days they would have been called the village elders, but Condley knew that now, under the edicts of faraway Ha Noi, they were termed the village’s People’s Committee. To his left, sitting nervously by himself on another wooden stool, was a younger man of perhaps forty. An old calendar was on one wall behind them. On another wall were three certificates for military service, each with a picture of a smiling Ho Chi Minh and a communist flag.

“Le Xuan Minh,” said Quyen officially, waving a hand toward the village chief. “And the People’s Committee of Ninh Phuoc.”

The seven men stood ceremoniously when Quyen ushered in the two Americans, wiping damp hands on their dirt-stained trousers. They had dressed up for the meeting, wearing long, gray-colored pants and long-sleeved cotton shirts, although their wide, powerful feet remained sockless in flip-flop sandals. They nodded perfunctorily when Condley shook their hands, each of them in turn holding his hand weakly, as if squeezing it would be a physical confrontation, and spoke softly to him in Vietnamese. Expectation filled their eyes, but they were patient and polite. Quyen had prepared them well.

“Moi ong ngoi do,” said the village chief, gesturing to the chairs.

“What do I do?” whispered Muir, suddenly nervous.

“Sit down and shut up,” grinned Condley, never taking his eyes off his counterpart across the table.