Melvin said, “I’m sorry, man.”

Viet wouldn’t let him finish. “You disrespect her,” he said. “You talk about her, only thirteen, like whore.” Viet found his amplified voice almost unrecognizable.

“Don’t do nothing crazy,” Melvin said.

“You disrespect me!”

“I was just foolin’ around but I shouldn’t a been talking like that.” Melvin held his hands up in front of his chest, palms out. “Don’t be mad now, come on.”

Viet whispered it again; you disrespect me, beneath his breath, and exhaled before letting go of the knife.

Melvin, arms wide-open said, “I like you, you a cool little cat. I didn’t mean nothin’. I swear. I didn’t mean no disrespect.”

“You see her again, you apologize,” Viet said, dropping the bag.

The glass jar cracked at his feet. The soymilk leaked through the brown paper. Nobody noticed. Their eyes were fixed on big Melvin’s arms wrapped around Viet, hugging him tight.

“Next time, just tell me to shut up al’right?” Melvin laughed. Smothered in Melvin’s overly jovial embrace of brotherhood, Viet remembered a Confucian saying and repeated it in his head. Don’t worry if people don’t recognize your merits; worry that you may not recognize theirs.

Melvin slapped him on the back and said, solemn and concerned, “Man, why don’t you come with us today? Chill with the boys.” Viet felt foolish looking down at his brown shoes and the soggy corners of the brown bag. He was thankful for their easy forgiveness, but declined. He wanted more than anything to sit alone, at the bench with the birds, and eat his lunch quietly.

A MAP BACK TO THE WORLD AND INTO YOUR HEART

Viet sat cross-legged beneath a weak sliver of sun on the edge of the carpet that divided his living room from the linoleum of the kitchen floor. He was hunched over a cutting board dicing jicama for his wife’s meatballs. Sheets of newspaper were spread beneath and around him to avoid getting food bits on the brown carpeting. A gray skullcap was pulled low over his large ears. His wife and daughters wore theirs too, matching red for the two girls and Huong’s hat matched his gray one since they had been on sale, two-for-one at Sears.

His oldest daughter Elle begged, “Can’t we please turn on the heat?”

Huong said, “It’s on.”

“Can we turn it up then? You can’t even feel it.” The girls were on the sofa with the tops of their red caps touching and their feet hanging over on opposite ends of the armrests. They were watching MTV. It was a free two-week trial period and the girls devoured it.

“For goodness sakes put on another sweater. And socks!” Huong’s gray hat stooped over the girls. She wrapped her hand around Elle’s bare foot. “No wonder!” she said. “Use your head, those music videos are making your brains mushy. Maybe we should turn that noise off.”

Huong passed by, reached down, cradled the bowl of jicama in her arm, and without a word sauntered back to the kitchen.