His wife moved to the small family altar at the house’s entrance, where she lit two red candles. Dzung joined her there with three more joss sticks, again lighting them in the candles’ flame. The joss sticks always came in threes when a family member died: one for heaven, one for earth, one for hell. He placed them in the sand jar at the center of the altar, and then he and Tu clasped their hands, moved them six times, and prayed.

To a lost child, dead of bad hygiene and disease.

To a new ancestor, protector, and adviser.

To themselves, trapped by fate, bound by love, grieving with four children in this waterless, mud-filled hovel somewhere between heaven and hell.

Little Thuc was crying again, clinging to Dzung’s knees. Hao, now again the youngest living child, had walked over and buried his head into his mother’s waist. Quoc, so much like Dzung himself, was again motionless, paralyzed by his very energy. And Vong still sat limply on the bed next to the dead baby, her eyes shut tightly as if to remove her from this scene of massive sorrow.

The narrow road in front of their home was beginning to fill with onlookers, the curious and the kind, mostly neighbors who soon would offer condolences and who tomorrow might bring small portions of rice and cakes as a gesture of their sympathy.

Suddenly it all overwhelmed Dzung, making him think for the first time in his life that he might go mad. The eyes of his neighbors, the wailing of his children, the sweet smoke and the glowing candles, everything his senses touched seemed to pour their memories inside him like some hot and bitter brine. They finished praying and Dzung felt he was swelling up with anguish, as if he might soon burst like a balloon from his toes to the top of his head and leak his hopelessness onto the packed-dirt floor until his ability to endure was completely gone.

At that moment only Quoc’s steadfast eyes saved him, loyal and inquiring. Their very gaze infused him again with dignity. Quoc wanted him to do something. His eyes told Dzung that there was indeed a tomorrow, and that only he could take them there.

It was a massive thought after twenty-five years of hopelessness, that he might find a way to prevent this moment from happening again. And it bordered on the impossible to think that he could ever bring his family a future, one that was more than a grinding, daily battle to endure, one crowned with hope and possibilities. But Quoc’s eyes told him that he must try—indeed, that if he did not try, he was betraying his own blood into eternity.

A quiet agony propelled Dzung forward. He called again to Quoc as he pushed his way through the onlookers outside his door and began to unlock his cyclo.

“Take care of your mother. Boil the rice.”