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wine—the expensive brand that Sopeap demanded. Ki had protested, but I reminded him that we only had enough money to buy it because Sopeap hadn’t made us pay this month’s rent.
    In the stillness of the morning, Ki’s breathing also reminds me that his concerns about the Rent Collector are valid. I don’t know for sure if Sopeap can read.
    I pretend the clock is ticking softly in the darkness, counting down the hours, the minutes, the seconds. I told Ki I wanted to hang the clock on our wall because I liked its flowered face—but that’s not exactly true. There is more. It helps me to remember that even though something is broken, it can still serve a purpose. Someday, if we ever have the money, I want to take it to a clock maker and have it repaired. It’s silly, I know, because buying a new clock would be less expensive.
    Sometimes broken things deserve to be repaired.
    My thoughts ramble. Will I learn to read? I implore the ancestors to just give me a chance. I’m wrong about a lot of things, but I believe that Sopeap really can read and that she’ll teach me. Like my clock and its telling of time, I hope this will be one of the moments, even if it’s only twice a day, that I’m right.
     
    *****
     
    I rush outside in the early-morning light and scan the hazy horizon, trying to spot Sopeap. The smoke is heavy and it’s difficult to make out silhouettes. After several minutes of study, I am certain that none of the shadows is my new instructor. I carry in more water and scrub the floor again where Nisay slept, to make sure it is spotless should Sopeap decide to sit there while she teaches. I pat the area dry, at least as much as possible, and then return to the path in the front of the house. No teacher.
    Our canvas wall is loose on the far end, and, using the rock that Ki keeps by the side of the house, I hammer the nails along the tarp’s top edge until all are tight. Then I hear someone coming and glance across my shoulder. Never mind. It is a neighbor who is just passing by.
    The massive cistern that holds our water at the side of our house is tipping slightly. I turn and twist the pot until it appears level and stable, and then I get on my knees and scrape up and pack enough dirt around the base to ensure it remains so. I imagine Sopeap will arrive when I least expect and interrupt me, perhaps even compliment me on being such a good worker. She doesn’t.
    Inside I organize my papers, sorting them again, this time by shape rather than by how much open space remains on the back of each page where I will write. I pick up one of my pencils and hold it to a paper as if I’m about to write something very important, though I can’t imagine what.
    With each accomplished task, my throat tightens, my breathing deepens, my focus shortens, and my hope fades like a morning moon. When Ki arrives at noon to see how my first day of learning is progressing, he finds me sitting alone on our mat, my knees pulled tight to my chest. I am not crying—I refuse. But as he enters, I neither move nor speak, afraid any discussion of the obvious topic will demolish my resolve.
    I expect him to say, “I told you so.” He doesn’t, though a heavy sigh handles the job just as admirably.
    “Where is Nisay?” he asks instead.
    “Mother wanted to work today, so Narin is watching him. Let me fix you something to eat, and then I will go and pick him up.”
    I have a cousin, Narin Sok, who also came to the dump from the province. On occasion, when special circumstances arise, we will watch each other’s children. Because I didn’t know what time Sopeap would show up, I left with Nisay before dawn, just after Ki Lim headed out for the day.
    Now, after preparing Ki’s rice, I reach for my sandals—and then we both hear a commotion at the front door, near where our curtain is pulled back. We look up at the same time. It is Sopeap Sin and she can hardly stand.
    “Where have you been?” Ki asks, before Sopeap enters and before I