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understand.”
    â€œThey complain to the government. They want them gone.”
    She was trying to keep up with him. “So these people come from another region,” she tried. “They’re poaching the metal.”
    â€œNo, it’s not that.”
    â€œThen what?”
    â€œIt is a local matter.”
    What a strange battle. A trespass each morning before dawn, and with babies and children, too. But never a confrontation.
    â€œYou said the villagers complained. Why don’t the soldiers make them leave then?” she asked. The Cambodian government had posted a dozen troops to guard—or contain—the American forensics expedition. They did little except lie in hammocks, or squat above the dig and gossip in the sun.
    â€œThey are just as brave as the villagers at this hour,” Samnang said. “No one comes, except you.”
    â€œAnd you,” she said.
    He smiled. “Anyway, it wouldn’t help. You find these morning people all through the country.”
    That was the second time he had said it that way. “Morning people?”
    â€œNow you have made me one, too,” he joked, growing even more elliptical. She decided to drop it. A local matter.
    Just then the sun cracked the night. The haze lit like fire. In the sudden flare of color, it was hard to see. The figures began to dissipate. That distant bell rang across the fields. Its single note vibrated in the air.
    Molly felt the heat against her face. “I have to see that bell someday,” she said.
    Next morning, he was waiting for her again. It was clear. Since she was going to persist in these morning walks, he would accompany her. Their walks became for her the high point of every day.
    When Kleat heard about her new friend, he advised her to dump Samnang. “Ditch him,” he said. “The old man’s KR. Or was.”
    KR was a universal phrase, part of every language spoken in Cambodia. Khmer Rouge, a French label, the Red Khmers, red for Communist, red for blood. “That’s crazy,” she said. “He was a professor at the university. How could he be KR? They killed people like him.”
    â€œOpen your eyes. You haven’t seen him with the men? He never raises his voice, and he’s a cripple. But they always do what he tells them. One word and it’s done.”
    â€œThat’s how it’s supposed to work, Kleat.”
    â€œBut they’re afraid of him.”
    It made no sense to a guy like Kleat how this gentlest of men was able to control the pent-up tempest of the workers. Born and raised in violent refugee camps, many of the local Khmer men were semi-wild. At night some got drunk in their villages, gambled, beat their women, and bloodied each other with knives and axes. Molly had pictures of that, too.
    But even the worst toughs obeyed Samnang without question. “They respect him,” she said.
    â€œHe has a power over them,” Kleat argued.
    â€œLike voodoo?”
    â€œLaugh. He’s KR, I tell you.”
    â€œThe KR don’t exist anymore.”
    â€œTell that to the workers. They have their memories.”
    â€œIf he was KR, what’s he doing here?”
    â€œThe same thing you’re doing,” Kleat said to her. “Making a buck. Doing penance. I don’t know.”
    Duncan was sitting there. He said it was none of Kleat’s business, even if Samnang had been KR. “Everyone has secrets they’d rather forget.”
    â€œNot secrets like that,” Kleat said.
    â€œLet up,” Duncan said. “Survival always has a price tag.”

4.
    At the end of her third week, Samnang approached Molly. “I have something to show you.”
    They rode in a Land Cruiser hired from three brothers who lived in Samnang’s hometown, Kampong Cham. The driver, a heavily tattooed boy, drove them to a nearby village. The village was built on stilts for the rainy season. There were even bridges between some