With every page they turned, the Lao language seemed to spread like a virus over the paper. On 1/24/1941 he attempted his first full page. There were mistakes here and there but they all suggested that Toshi was enjoying his journey through this new language. He wrote about traveling across the Lao countryside with his friend and eating and drinking local delicacies. He threw it all down on the page, hang the consequences. Suddenly, after three years of beautiful but disciplined Japanese text, his words had flamboyance.

The penlight was made in China so neither of them was surprised when the feeble beam gave up the ghost. It was a sign of the times. Soviet donations were ugly and almost indestructible. Chinese donations looked like the originals but didn’t work, yet the donors still believed the third world should be grateful.

“Let’s go inside and read some more,” said Daeng.

“A riddle first,” said Siri. “Why do you think someone would send me the diary of a Japanese soldier?”

“Because they knew you were desperate for reading material?”

“I admit it will be fun to read but they’ve gone to a lot of trouble to get this to me in one piece. My guess is that there has to be a point.”

“You sure there isn’t a letter in there?”

“I didn’t look.”

He held up the diary by the spine and, recklessly, fanned through the pages. At first nothing happened. Then a single page came loose. It was caught briefly in the lamplight from the shop as it surfed a breeze. It was almost impossible to follow its course but it was clear to both of them that it was headed in the direction of the river. Before it could hit the water it was out of sight.