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gold shining in the sunlight.
    Before Tinh was big enough to go to market with Ma, he’d waited here in the sand dunes for her return in the evening. When he saw her, he’d run to check the buckets of her
ganh hang
for a special treat: a lump of brown-sugar candy, a mango or banana, or maybe an ear of roasted corn.
    Now as Tinh walked to the top of a dune, his feet crunched in the dry sand. In the damp of the dune valleys, mosquitoes bit his ankles.
    With every step, he felt the slap of the pendant in one pocket and the rustle of money in the other. What if someone tried to take the money from him? He held the propeller like a shield.
    Behind him, his dark shadow slipped over the sand.
    During the war, soldiers had fought here. They’d hidden behind the dunes, firing their rifles. They’d thrown grenades and planted land mines.
    The land mines still lay underneath the sand. Sometimes, when the sun shone on them, they exploded from the heat. If someone stepped on a land mine, it tore off his legs. First Uncle had lost his leg that way.
    Tinh examined the ground as he walked. What would buried land mines look like? Bumps in the sand? Rough patches? His palms sweated.
    He stopped and tilted the soda bottle up to his mouth. He drank all his water.
    At last the sand dunes tapered down into the village. The storm had hit here, too. Tinh passed downed trees, damaged houses. As in Hai Nhuan, he saw people working together to clean up.
    When a man rode by on a bicycle carrying long sticks of brown-sugar candy, Tinh’s mouth watered.
    Finally, he spotted the brick hut of the machine shop, smoke rising from the chimney. Tinh approached and peered inside.
    Men wearing thick glasses and masks were gathered around a hot charcoal fire.
    One man looked up at Tinh. Walking over, he took the propeller. He touched the sharp, broken edges with his fingertip. “Wait outside,” he said, gesturing to a bench. “The storm has brought us a lot of work.”
    Tinh sat down on the bench, his back against the wall. Even if he had to wait a long time, he’d made it to the machine shop. He’d walked by himself to Phong Chuong and had delivered the propeller.
    Tinh felt the heat from the open doorway. Soon, he heard the sound of pounding. He unwrapped his sweet potatoes and peeled them carefully. The pink flesh was soft and sugary. He ate the peelings, then licked his fingers. By the side of the building, he found a large jar of water and refilled his soda bottle.
    Tinh lay down on the bench. He fell asleep to the songs of the birds in the trees overhead.
    â€œBoy,” he heard from the air above him. The man was holding the propeller with a pair of tongs. It glowed a dull red. The man laid it on the ground. All three petals were now complete. “Don’t touch this yet. It’s still hot.”
    Tinh handed the man the money.
    The man gave back a small bill in change.
    Tinh watched as the propeller cooled, slowly losing its red tinge. He touched the edge of a blade, then laid his hand on the shaft, now barely warm. He lifted the propeller into his lap and sat with it. This last piece would make the boat whole. This propeller would spin in the water, carrying him and Ba out to the fish.
    Now he had to get home.
    Just as the town gave way to the sand dunes, Tinh found a small purple flower growing in the shade. He picked it, and gathered bamboo leaves to keep it company. He wrapped the small bouquet with a blade of thin grass.
    As he climbed the first sand dune, his heart quickened. Ahead lay a twilight filled with ghosts and unexploded land mines. He began to chant:
“Phat Ba Quan Ahm, see me. . . .”
Balancing the propeller first in one hand, then the other, he wiped his palms on his shirt.
    Tinh stopped and stood still. He thought of making the tray of sweet offerings with Banoi at Lunar New Year. He imagined the weight of the tray on his head. He felt Banoi’s hand in his as she’d led