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in the middle, her hair was held fast by rusty pins. Her face, narrow and pleasant, was dominated by large, almost oversize eyes. Half of a coconut shell sat on her lap. Several gold-colored Vietnamese coins occupied the bottom of the coconut. Beneath the coconut was a worn blanket, which was flowered and full of patches.
    “We’ll get going soon, Tam,” the woman, Qui, whispered, stroking Tam’s cheek. “The river misses you.”
    Tam nodded absently. “A pretty sky.”
    Qui glanced above. At first she saw streetlights that drew countless insects. But higher, several stars managed to penetrate the glow of the city. “Yes,” she replied, “but not as pretty as you.”
    “Or you, Little Bird.”
    A bearded foreigner walked past, and Qui tried to capture his attention. Switching to English, she said, “You want good book? The Quiet American ? Lonely Planet Vietnam ?”
    The man paused, his eyes darting from an orderly pile of books at Qui’s feet to the sickly form of Tam. “My money’s gone,” he replied, lifting full plastic bags. “Too many souvenirs.”
    Qui stroked Tam’s arm. “Please. Maybe you have few Vietnamese dong left? Or U.S. dollar? My granddaughter so sick. Please help me.”
    The foreigner looked more closely at Tam. He saw how her body was wasting away, how her eyes didn’t seem to fix upon him, but drifted about. He wondered what was wrong with her. “I don’t think I have anything left,” he said, avoiding Qui’s gaze.
    “Please, please look in your pocket,” Qui replied, placing her hands together as if praying. “I must buy more medicine for granddaughter. Please help her. Please, kind sir.”
    Setting his bags down, the man unzipped his fanny pack and groped inside it. He produced several nearly worthless Vietnamese coins, and placed them into Tam’s coconut. “I’m sorry. It’s all I have.”
    “Thank you,” Qui replied. “You are good man. You have good heart. Maybe tomorrow you come back and buy book?”
    “Maybe.”
    Qui took her hands, placed them outside Tam’s, and again appeared to pray. “May Buddha smile on you.”
    The man said good night and disappeared into the chaos that was Ho Chi Minh City. Tam groaned and instinctively reached for her blanket. The coconut fell to the ground, coins scattering. Knowing that she’d stayed too late, Qui carefully lifted Tam from her lap, set her granddaughter on the bench, and began to gather the coins.
    Qui then placed two straps around her shoulders and tossed a bag-like canvas device over her head. The contraption rested against the middle of her back. After setting her books and the coconut in a pouch that she wore against her belly, she nodded to a nearby cyclo driver and the man stepped toward Tam. He lifted her gently, positioning her within the bag, so that her legs encircled Qui’s waist and her arms draped down upon Qui’s chest. Tam’s blanket, held tight in a small fist, swung to and fro.
    Qui thanked the driver, drew a deep breath, and began to walk. The night was humid, but not too hot. Along the wide road near Ben Thanh Market, buses—either sleek havens for tourists or ancient contraptions for locals—belched fumes as they lumbered past scooters and cyclos. Many pedestrians and scooter drivers wore cotton masks so as to spare their lungs from the soot that permeated the air. Qui had once tried placing one over Tam’s face, but Tam hadn’t liked breathing through the fabric. And if Tam wouldn’t use a mask, neither would Qui.
    After a few blocks, Tam’s weight—nominal as it was—caused Qui’s back and knees to ache. Though the pain slowed her down considerably, Qui was accustomed to it. In some ways, she welcomed the pain, for Tam suffered so much, and it was better that her precious granddaughter not be alone in her misery.
    Thinking of this misery, Qui asked Tam how she felt.
    “My front hurts,” Tam replied.
    Qui knew that Tam’s belly and chest were aching, that she was finding it difficult