And there was another problem that would not go away. Slowly, as if exploring, Dzung put a hand at the center of his chest and felt his heart beating. Then he tried to imagine what it would be like if his heart suddenly stopped, forever. Would his baby know when that happened? Would he panic in his mind, even though he could not move? Or would it be a merciful and swift deliverance?

He had no right to question fate. These things happened. He had been a good son, a good husband, and a good father, so it could not be a punishment. And it did no good to grow bitter over that which one could not control. But what would be so terrible if the great god Chua, or his messenger the temple-master Phat, granted the little boy a reprieve?

Finally the meter taxi arrived, dropping Condley off in front of the Vien Dong Hotel. An energy lifted the American’s face as he paid the taxi driver and headed across the street toward Dzung. It was the energy that had caused Dzung to worry. All the years before, Condley had seemed much like Dzung himself: lost and poetic, living neither in the past nor the future, skimming by on the raw power of Sai Gon’s daily roar. Condley had been along for the ride, here because there was no better place to go. But in all that time he had gone into nothing too deeply. There had been women, but never for longer than a few days. There had been friends, but none with whom he shared even the emotions of the past. Other than Dzung himself.

Something had happened. Perhaps in Da Nang. Perhaps in the Kieu Hoa restaurant the week before. Perhaps back in Hawaii. But Condley had gone through a subtle change, and with his piercing insight Dzung felt that his friend was slowly drifting away.

As always, Dzung jumped down from his cyclo and waved happily to Condley. “Where we go, Cong Ly?”

Condley pointed toward the hotel. An excitement lifted his voice. “I’ll come back in one hour. Then we go to Colonel Pham’s house.”

“We go his house?” Dzung tried to hide his amazement.

“One hour!”

“You never go his house, Cong Ly. He VC.”

“He’s a good VC, Dzung.”

“There no good VC. VC no good, Cong Ly, you know that.”

Condley stopped for a moment, making himself focus in on the confused and increasingly stubborn face of his longtime friend. Finally he patted Dzung on a shoulder. “Dzung. This is very important to me. I’m your friend. Trust me.”

Dzung held Condley’s eyes for several seconds, then regained a weaker version of his normal smile. “I am old Cong Hoa soldier, Cong Ly. We always trust the Americans, even in 1975. You know that.”