TWO WEEKS AFTER OUR KISS I watch Li Thi's face turn ashen as he learns of Sun's death. He is digging a hole. He responds with extraordinary restraint, asking his commanding officer if her body has been retrieved, thanking him for the expression of sympathy, resuming his digging immediately. The hole will be a grave that living men will inhabit to ambush patrolling invaders.
I awake sweating cold despite the oppressive heat and humidity and find a blanket in one of the supply tents to wrap around myself. I sit not far from the sentry. Dully luminescent blurs appear inland on the horizon where harassment and interdiction is illuminated by flares. Looking for some privacy, if only for a minute, on a tangent from my recon patrol, I crossed the actual area of my dream region just yesterday. Now there is a trap. Li Thi, scout for a VC ambush, was already in the area when I strayed. He didn't fire at the lame, lone soldier, either out of caution, sympathy charged by a queer inkling of familiarity, or because he himself was lost, and envisioning his living sister, in dream.
pssst. . .sign the guestbook!