He did not know what else to do. That seemed always to be his curse. So he tried to do everything all at once. He held her in one arm, kissing and consoling her as he pulled the cyclo out of the narrow roadway with his free arm and then locked it. He stood next to the house, holding her close to him for another long moment, trying to calm her. He angrily waved away the old women from across the lane, who now peered out of their upstairs windows with their rheumy, remembering eyes. And finally he carried Thuc with him into the house.

His son Quoc was standing alone just inside the doorway, next to the shelf unit that blocked the view from the road. Quoc’s small hands were clenched into fists. His head was bowed, as if he were fighting off his own indecision. Yes, thought Dzung, walking up to his oldest son and putting his free hand on the boy’s back. He’s like me. He’ll always be like me. When bad things happen he wants to do too many things. And so he stands there doing nothing.

More wailing came from the other side of the shelf unit. Dzung did not want to go any further into the house. He began to take another step forward; Thuc, clutching his neck, crying louder, caused him to halt. Standing for another moment with Thuc in his arms, he nestled Quoc’s head against his chest.

“Come, son,” he said to Quoc, pressing the boy in the small of his back as he moved into the house. “Your mother needs us.”

His wife, Tu, saw him and stopped wailing. Her eyes embraced him with sadness as she sat motionless on the edge of their bed. Her face was wan with exhaustion. Her arms hung limply around Vong and Hao, the two middle children. Vong, the daughter who was eleven, sat numbly on Tu’s lap. Hao, the younger son, stood as Dzung entered, and walked over and clutched his leg.

“The baby is dead,” said Hao.

On the bed the mosquito net was drawn up toward the ceiling. His wife had never lost a child but she knew the traditions, the proprieties, all the little, intricate, mandatory ceremonies that drove their culture, even when there was no money, even now at the point of death. She had put down a clean straw mat and a white cloth over that. The baby was lying on the white cloth, dressed in pale-blue cotton pajamas. Underneath his head was a pad made of thin white linen. A white handkerchief had been placed over his face.