Reunions

By Janine Jason

Dr. Brad Lewis is an egocentric, charismatic physician who's devoted to his patients but obsessed with achieving scientific success. When his neglected wife divorces him, he becomes irrational and kidnaps their young daughter. In Reunions, Brad's drive for academic fame fights with his desire for revenge but the novel itself addresses a more significant issue--whether a young child's love can humanize an emotionally closed man. On Brad's circuitous journey toward emotional maturity, he gets involved in the theft of federal property, is implicated in a murder, and unearths the sub rosa origins of the U.S. Bone Marrow Registry. Brad's faltering steps toward an emotional awakening require him to accept his former wife's grudging aid, his new lover's unconditional commitment, and his only daughter's critical illness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janine Jason
• Release date: Aug 10, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452399126

Janine Jason

Janine Jason's previous publications include a nonfiction book entitled Parenting Your Premature Baby, published in hardback by Henry Holt, Inc. in 1989 and paperback by Doubleday Dell, Inc. in 1990. It was cited in the Library Journal as one of the best lay medical books of that year. Janine has recently published two novels: Reunions and Alexandria the Great and Other, Lesser Beings. Both are available as Ebooks. In addition to writing, Janine is CEO of Jason and Jarvis Associates, a medical and epidemiology consulting firm she co-founded after spending 23 years in the U.S. Public Health Service (PHS), as a medical scientist at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). While at CDC she ran a variety of activities, including Hemophilia-AIDS Surveillance and Epidemiology, evaluation of the National AIDS Information and Education Program, and the HIV Immunoregulatory Laboratory. She collaborated with persons at other PHS agencies and consulted to foreign Ministries of Health. Dr. Jason has >100 peer-reviewed research publications, both related to and independent of HIV infection, and is viewed as a world's expert in the overlapping areas of immunology, infectious diseases, and public health. During the years Dr. Jason was at CDC, she provided free health care at Emory University, where she was a Clinical Associate Professor in the Department of Pediatric Infectious Diseases, Immunology, and Epidemiology. Now, in addition to her writing and consulting, Dr. Jason continues to provide free health care--at the Volunteers in Medicine Clinic on Hilton Head Island in South Carolina. Janine received her undergraduate degree from the University of Chicago and her M.D. degree from Harvard Medical School. She did a Pediatric Residency at Children's Hospital of Los Angeles and Immunology Fellowship at the Hospital for Sick Children, Toronto, Ontario. After two years as a Research Associate at Yale University she entered the PHS. Since 2003, she's lived a bicoastal life, spending half the year fighting the weeds in her yard in South Carolina and half the year fighting them in Oregon and San Francisco. She enjoys two very independent daughters, a high-powered husband, and bizarre sheepdog. Janine travels a good deal--for work and pleasure--and takes her dog along as much as possible.

Book preview

Section I: Purgatory

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 1

Bamboo shoots, Moore. Lieutenant Brad Lewis's legs were resting on a green metal desk. His military-issue shoes were too untended to reflect either his face or his future. Why don’t they just put bamboo shoots under my finger nails and be done with it?

He stared at a pile of untouched medical journals and wondered how he’d gotten so lax about keeping up with his reading. It wasn’t as if he had better things to do. It was inertia, pure and simple. Twenty months into his indenturement and he still refused to acknowledge being trapped in the Tennessee rat hole referred to as Millington Naval Base.

He was certain of one thing. Only the U-period, S-period, capital N, Navy would put a submarine training base in a place that didn't have water—not even a lake, never mind an ocean. That same brand of logic had him treading nonexistent water in the base’s clinic, when he should be advancing a brilliant scientific career. Boston, that’s where he should be right now.

Ensign Moore was used to the Lewis’s rants. Sir, he said, with all due respect, might you be over-reacting? he said.

Rick, Lewis said, Pure and simple, I can’t renew her prescription. Tell Pharmacy, okay? I can’t in good conscience sign off on that dosage without examining her first.

Damn war wouldn’t end. That’s why I’m here, Brad thought. His was the unluckiest of birthdays, September 14th. That put him at the top of the ’69 lottery. He figured it was no big deal, since he was doing his medical training. Sure enough, he got a deferral to complete his Residency. He was certain that would see him to the end of the war. Only it didn’t, so he decided to stretch out his training by being the University of Chicago’s Internal Medicine Chief Resident. The position didn't provide much money and even less sleep but it looked good on a curriculum vitae and kept him away from Vietnam for another year. Only that wasn’t long enough. In June of ’71, the Chief Residency ended but the war was still dragging on. The kicker came when he was accepted into the best hematology-oncology fellowship program in the country. It fulfilled his dreams but, with the wisdom of bureaucracy, the Navy denied his request for another deferral.

Now Brad was counting off the days in the final four months of a two-year indenturement, seething at the injustice. It was like the commercial said, a mind is a horrible thing to waste. By now he could have been half-way into his research, moving on toward a Nobel Prize.

Lieutenant Lewis, Moore said, I respectfully submit that no one gives a rat’s ass about your conscience.

If Brad had gotten the assignment he requested, now he’d be at the Bethesda Naval Hospital. He might have been able to start some bench research there. Instead the Navy parked him at Millington. The way Brad figured it, it was a classic case of military overreaction—a cannon blast of a ‘no’ to his request when a slap would have sufficed. He could have made do with a civilized environment, a tertiary care hospital at least.

Brad’s eyes focused on a calendar hanging on the cinderblock wall beside the desk. He cautioned himself to cool it with the complaining and be grateful he was Stateside and had only four months left. It was a damn good thing he hadn’t gone into surgery. That would have guaranteed him two years in ’Nam. Millington was a resort compared to that. Still, being Stateside translated into tending to the aches, pains, and paronychia of military families. Not combat, but definitely torture. It wasn’t that he minded the enlisted men. They were okay—not all that sharp, definitely not compliant, but decent enough. Noncompliant beat the officers’ pomposity, not to mention their spawning mates’ delusions of grandeur.

Sir, are you sure you want to push this? Moore said.

Just convey the message, Moore.

When Brad had arrived at Millington, he was told he might bring POWs back from Vietnam. That would have been worthwhile, interesting even. The calendar read February of ’73 but not a single POW had been released. So Brad babysat spoiled military brass and their appendages, on of which was currently personified by Mrs. Helen Hammond, the wife of a soon-to-be retired Captain. Brad judged the retirees to be the worst of the lot. They were like research monkeys—outlived their usefulness but you had to take care of them until they died of natural causes. Not to mention, you had to treat retirees with respect. Monkeys didn’t demand respect.

Moore was on the phone with the pharmacy. He knows, Ray.

Moore’s apologetic tone wasn’t lost on Brad.

I know, Ray, Moore said. Yeah, yeah, Ray. There was a long pause. I bet. Looking forward to it."

Brad was impressed by Moore. He was a decent man. How had he put up with the Navy bureaucracy for twelve years? Talk about inner strength.

While Brad waited for Moore to share the pharmacist’s response he pondered over what innovative mind would put a puke green linoleum floor beside a canary yellow cinderblock wall. Brad didn’t consider himself an interior decorator but he wasn’t blind either.

The light from an uncovered ceiling fixture reflected off a white enamel ceiling and stopped just short of Moore, standing just outside the doorway.

Mrs. Hammond’s on her way over, Lieutenant.

Maybe I shouldn’t have started this, Brad thought. Then he reminded himself that, Navy or no Navy and no matter how obnoxious the patients were, he was responsible for seeing that no harm came to them. Rank’s privileges didn’t include the right to unintentional suicide, not on his watch anyway.

Keep an eye out for her, okay, Rick? Don’t let those slackers in reception park her in a chair. We don’t need things worse than they already are.

You got it, Sir.

Can you put her in room three? Exam room three had a door. The others were screened from one another by curtains.

Rick stepped forward. Sir?

Yes, Moore?

Sir, kindness forces me to forewarn you. Because of your well-intentioned concern, Mrs. Hammond is not a happy woman.

She’s not the first woman with that complaint.

Moore paused and then said, Sir, due respect, it’s usually better to screw a Captain’s wife than to screw with her.

Nicely stated, Brad said. But for Christ’s sake, Moore, she’s trying to fill a prescription for eight containers of Ventolin. Eight, and her last refill was only a month ago. Either her asthma’s so bad that she’s lucky to be alive or she’s addicted to the stuff. If Ventolin isn’t covering her, we need to get her on steroids.

Moore nodded. Lewis was an odd duck. Smart, but a wise-acre—an entertaining but combustible mix. Moore had no intention of getting in the line of fire. He’d succeeded so far and hoped to maintain that record. But you never knew what direction Lewis would take, which was dangerous. Usually the Lieutenant was a real cold fish. That was fine with Moore. Officers’ personalities were none of his business. Moore was more disturbed by Lewis’s unpredictability. Out of nowhere, the Lieutenant would get all soft about some patient, usually a kid. Didn’t they teach him in medical school to keep his distance? Now he was making a big deal about Mrs. Hammond’s prescription. Why couldn’t he just renew it and keep his opinions to himself?

Whatever you say, Lieutenant, Moore said. Then he hesitated. It’s just that, well, do you think maybe this might be the wrong time to mark a line in the sand—no disrespect to Colonel Travis?

Brad hoped Moore’s Alamo reference wouldn’t prove prophetic. It forced him to recall a residency evaluation he’d managed to fit into his locked storeroom of bad memories. Under ‘Weaknesses,’ the evaluation had listed self-destructively stubborn, cocky, occasionally lacking tact, void of political skills. Brad had sulked for weeks.

He shook off the recollection. So what? They made me Chief Resident. That says more than words. Besides, I’m not wrong about this lady.

Let me know when she’s ready, Brad said, standing up. I’ll be in room one.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 2

Helen Hammond enjoyed the Navy. Early on she’d found it confining. Then, as her husband Fred slowly climbed the ranks, his accruing power and prestige rubbed off on her in a decidedly pleasant way. She grew to like Fred less and less but the Navy, more and more. Increasing estrangement from her spouse seemed a small price to pay for status and security. Helen assumed Fred shared her viewpoint since he appeared content with their domestic situation. They had an unspoken understanding to not bother one another with attempts at conversation. An occasional nod sufficed as they turned the pages of their generally satisfactory lives.

The Hammonds were united in their anticipation of Fred’s upcoming thirty-year retirement from military service. Within the year, their lives would become an endless tour of Officers’ Quarters in every coastal military facility in the United States of America and all civilized, allied countries. They’d vacation unto death, making their old age as golden as it gets.

Fred drank heavily to get himself in shape for his upcoming life of leisure. In Helen’s opinion, he held his liquor poorly, as did many a Navy man. She, on the other hand, abstained from alcohol and, of course, all other questionable substances. She enjoyed pointing this out to anyone who’d listen and anyone who tried not to. Helen Hammond was appalled that an upstart Lieutenant would dare imply she was addicted to anything, even a prescription medication.

When the Ensign had taken her to the examination room, she felt he was being appropriately respectful. But then, as he left, he had the gall to suggest she take off her clothing. Mrs. Hammond chose to remove her white polyester turtleneck sweater and grey wool skirt. She folded them neatly and stacked them beside her on the examination table. Her unmentionables, stockings, full length slip, and heels remained untouched. Her strawberry blonde hair had gotten disheveled by the removal of her sweater, so she combed and pinned it in place. Now Mrs. Hammond straightened her spine, pulled back her shoulders, and scissored her legs together. Then she pressed her calves against the side of the examination table. She awaited her opponent, relishing the upcoming confrontation with an underling. He’d pay for her embarrassment at the pharmacy.

Brad reviewed Mrs. Hammond’s chart as he approached room three. Moore had recorded her pulse as 140 and her blood pressure as 150 over 95. Both were worrisomely elevated in a 51-year-old woman on high doses of bronchodilators. She was a setup for a stroke.

Have you heard of knocking, Lieutenant? Mrs. Hammond said.

Brad forced himself to take a deep breath. Mrs. Hammond, I’m sorry. I thought you were expecting me. He turned his eyes to the chart and used his most authoritative voice. It says here you’re fifty-one. You’ve never been hospitalized . . .

Except when I had my children.

Yes, except for childbirth. Correct?

Must be, Lieutenant. I wrote it down myself. It’s been a long time since I was in a hospital. Why, so long ago that my husband, the Captain, ranked no higher than you. Of course, back then we weren’t in Tennessee. He was a fighting officer, served in Korea while I held things down on the home front. The children and I waited for him in San Diego. Have you ever seen real service, Lieutenant?

I’m afraid this is about as real as I can take, Ma’am. He watched Mrs. Hammond’s lips curl. Before she could say anything, he continued. Mrs. Hammond, how long have you had asthma?

Don’t know I do have asthma, she said. In fact, I’m fairly certain only children and smokers get asthma. I never smoked. No alcohol either, not even the supposedly acceptable habit of having wine with dinner. No, I’ve kept my body clean."

If you don’t have asthma, why are you on asthma medication?

I don’t know anything about asthma medication. In ’63 I had a bad case of the flu, got full-blown, double walking pneumonia. Captain Hughes was my doctor back then, a Captain and a gentleman. Wonderful to have a gentleman available, what with Fred overseas. Well, anyway, I could barely breathe. Dr. Hughes, Captain Hughes, started me on the Ventolin. It made all the difference in the world. From then on, whenever I get a cold, I use it. It always does the trick.

You’ve never been diagnosed with asthma?

What does that matter?

Ventolin is a treatment for asthma.

Mrs. Hammond spoke slowly and firmly. I think doctors who know what they’re doing understand that if a person gets better on a certain medicine the medicine must be good for them. Why, it’s common sense. Asthma, cold, flu, whatever name you want to use, the medicine works. You don’t need a medical degree to know you use something if it works.

Brad took another deep breath. Mrs. Hammond, the size of your bronchodilator prescription has me worried. It’s four times what I’ve ever prescribed at one time.

Lieutenant, you don’t need to explain that you’re inexperienced. That much is obvious.

Brad bit the inside of his lip before continuing. And that prescription was for a chronic asthmatic the size of a sumo wrestler. Why, you’re a tiny little lady, ma’am.

Don’t try to flatter me, mister. Are we coming to the reason your lackey wanted me to take my clothes off?

Unbelievable, Brad thought. He may not have gotten a lot of action in the last year or so but he wasn’t that desperate. This lady was older than his mother and not half as pretty, granted they were a match in terms of rigidity.

No, no, ma’am. Of course not. I’m trying to explain. Taking this much medicine every month isn’t safe.

As Lewis stepped forward, he tapped on the bell of his stethoscope, hoping it looked professional. Then he felt foolish about caring how it looked.

Mrs. Hammond, according to the Ensign’s notes, your pulse and blood pressure are on the high side. That could be from the medicine. Even if it isn’t, it’s not safe to take so much Ventolin when your blood pressure is high. I’d like to examine you, to see if you need Ventolin and be sure it’s not hurting you. Is that alright?

Mrs. Hammond’s face reddened. She arched her back further. No, young man, it is not alright. I am used to getting medical care when I say I need it, not when some young whippersnapper wants to fondle a female. I am a Captain’s wife. I went to the pharmacy to refill a prescription written by a real doctor. Instead of my prescription being filled, I was treated like an addict. I’ve had more than enough harassment. Who is your Commanding Officer?

Mrs. Hammond, I assure you it’s not my aim to insult your modesty. My interests are purely professional. We don’t have to be alone during the exam. Ensign Moore will join us. I promise I won’t look at or touch anything unless I have to. You don’t need to take your clothes off.

You are absolutely correct. I will not bare myself to two male underlings. I asked you a question, Lieutenant. I want an answer and I want it now. Who is your CO?

Okay, fine. Captain Kramer, ma’am.

Fine for me, too, Lieutenant. Expect to hear from him. Now I suggest you leave before I decide to file a formal complaint.

Brad fought to control himself. Rick was right. He shouldn’t have bothered in the first place. Kramer would defend him on this one, wouldn’t he? Ed might be a horse’s ass but he was a good physician. The medical issue was clear. Mrs. Hammond was addicted, granted to her own particular poison. The amount of ventolin she was taking could kill her. She was a pompous biddy who would be no great loss to the world but she was their responsibility. They had to protect her, whether she wanted them to or not. But for now, he needed to retain an appearance of control. Kramer would have to deal with the more substantive issue.

Well, ma’am, I certainly don’t want a formal complaint, Brad said. I’m positive you’ll find Captain Kramer as concerned as I am. But I completely support your right to a second opinion.

First opinion, as far as I’m concerned. The first one that matters, at any rate. Now, young man, don’t you have other people to harass?

Brad’s only remaining goal was to leave the room with his dignity intact. Room three’s door wouldn’t allow him even that. It insisted on sticking, then it released itself so unexpectedly that Brad was propelled backwards, almost into Mrs. Hammond’s lap. Brad judged her shriek as theatrical.

When Brad was finally in the hallway, freed from the exam room, he told Moore to get his next patient. He regretted how loud his voice sounded, even to his own ears.

Moore patted him on the shoulder. Take a break, doc. You’ve got yourself some POWs to collect.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Brad reported to the base’s air field at 0-800 hours on a February morning that belonged above the Mason-Dixon Line. He shivered as a Commander from Naval Intelligence, standing on the tarmac beside the boarding ramp of a C47 Skytrain, handed him a stack of papers.

Fill out these forms, the Commander said. You’ve got a set for each POW.

Forms? I’m supposed to stabilize patients, not complete forms, Brad said.

Tell that to the gentlemen at the Pentagon. If you’re unhappy about anything at all, talk to them. Want to venture a guess on how concerned they’ll be?

Brad didn’t appreciate the man’s sly grin—or his next words.

The Brass wants details on the POWs’ medical status. Don’t ask the men about their time in the camps. If one of them starts babbling, stop him. It’s none of your business, got it? Make like the three monkeys. No see, no hear, no talk. Your job is to get the men home safe and sound. You fill out your part of the forms. Leave the rest to Debriefing.

How am I supposed to give them medical care if I can’t ask questions?

You’re the doctor, Lieutenant. Do your tests, wave your magic wand. Take all the blood you want. Hell, take whatever you want. Anything the Commies haven’t taken already.

The Commander handed Lewis three thin manila file folders and motioned for him to board the aircraft. Before Brad could belt himself into a jump seat, the transport taxied down the runway. He was its only occupant.

Brad watched Millington turn into Memphis, then Memphis disappear from the miniscule window. His eyes turned to the folders in his lap, each labeled with a name and military ID. It didn’t take him long to review the files. They held nothing more than the service medical records of three healthy, young men and cursory statements about their time in captivity.

Charles Lusky, drafted in ’69 at age twenty. A Lieutenant JG when he was shot down in ’71. Unmarried. Appendectomy at sixteen. No other hospitalizations. Undocumented allergy to penicillin.

David Keyserling, drafted right out of high school in ’64. Married, one child. Brad figured Keyserling knocked up a classmate and did right by her before shipping out. Shot down on his second reconnaissance flight, he’d been a POW for around nine years. Then and now he ranked Ensign. Brad thought nine years in prison camps should have earned the poor guy at least one promotion. Keyserling’s kid had to be eight or nine by now. Keyserling may never have seen him. The Ensign probably wouldn’t recognize his wife at this point.

Brad reminded himself to mind his own business.

Keyserling’s only medical records were from Dental. Bad teeth back then. Be lucky if a single tooth was left now. Brad supposed that was the least of Keyserling’s worries.

The third POW, Thomas Marriot, got promoted to Captain during his prison term. Enlisted in ’62, captured in ’67 along with his A1 Skyhawk.

Brad caught his breath. That was why they were bringing three men back, instead of the twenty or thirty he’d expected. While Brad was in his Residency, Marriot had been all over the news. A hero of heroes. Of course the Navy wanted to take special care of him.

Back in ’68, the North Vietnamese interviewed Marriot on film. They asked him what he thought of the U.S. war policy, ordering him to respond properly and politely. Marriot responded that he trusted his government. More impressive, he blinked his eyes, as if the lights were too bright. Turned out he was using Morse Code to say he was being tortured. The Vietnamese figured out what he was up to and—no surprise—decided to not air the film. Somehow a U.S. reporter got hold of it. Every network broadcast it for days.

Marriot single-handedly refreshed American patriotism, for a short while at least. Brad considered being responsible for the man an honor. Intimidating, but he’d do right by Marriot. For once the Navy got something right, by picking Brad for the job.

He returned his attention to the man’s file. Marriot was married, with two kids. From the medical records, Brad gathered Marriot had been athletic, argumentative, or both. Past history of fractures, a lacerated spleen. Lucky for Marriot, a surgeon had managed to stitch the spleen back together. Marriot wouldn’t have survived a jungle POW camp without one.

Five, six years in prison, in a foreign country, in the jungle. Torture, solitary confinement. Had to have screwed up his head. How would he get over something like that? How could he ever be normal?

Brad wasn’t into shrink stuff. Nah, he modeled himself after his medical school roommate, Dallas. Big black guy, a real man’s man. When Dallas did his required psychiatry rotation, one of his patients was a suicidal woman from the projects. In her first session, the woman told him she had four children, recently lost her job, and her boyfriend walked out on her. Dallas explained to Brad how he gave her practical advice, not shrink shit.

Lady, Dallas said, I get it. You got four kids, no job, and no man. And let’s face it, you is ugly. I mean, u-u-ugly. Ain’t no man gonna want you. Why come to me? You ain’t crazy. You got good reason to be depressed. I sure as hell can’t help ya be less ugly and I can’t get yah a man. Why waste your time with me? Put on some makeup, get out there and take whatever job you can get. Thank the lord if your kids don’t look like you. That’d be a blessing.

Dallas. What did he end up going into? Surgery, as Brad recalled. Great guy. Too bad they’d lost touch.

Brad stretched out on the aircraft’s vibrating floor, trying to tune out the engine noise. Three fuel stops before Saigon—Travis in California, Hickam in Hawaii, and Subic Bay in the Philippines. He planned to sleep through them so he’d be alert when the plane landed in Vietnam.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 4

After thirty-two hours on the transport plane, Brad was eager for solid ground. At sunrise, 0-500 Saigon time, he deplaned into a land of dripping hot air and pungent odors. Plants in limitless shades of green and brown and flowers redefining ‘pink,’ ‘yellow,’ ‘orange,’ ‘white,’ and ‘red’ startled his eyes with their psychedelic colors. Magenta and purple streaked the azure sky. Exploding white clouds were so crisply outlined they could have been drawn with a pencil. Brad remembered a story his last serious girlfriend told him over dinner, mere minutes before she accused him of being both self-centered and overly involved with his patients, an illogical combination of complaints, to his mind.

She’d taken her Montessori class on a field trip to the Museum of Science and Industry one sunny spring day. The kids were lining up outside to be counted before going in.

Children, she said, Look how green the grass is. Look how blue the sky is. What do you suppose is God’s favorite color?

Purple, they shouted.

It might have been fun having kids, with her. Guess she didn’t agree.

He told himself to stop moping about a relationship that ended two years ago. What’s done was done. Anyway, whatever God’s favorite color, Brad figured you could find it here.

His brain was groggy, his ears were ringing. He couldn’t feel his legs, let alone walk them a straight line. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t in Kansas anymore. He intended to fully explore Oz.

The air station was as active as a hornet’s nest. For once the news had it right, troop withdrawal wasn’t propaganda—not that it should matter to him. Four months left, war or not.

A nearby corrugated metal building seemed out of place in the lush setting. As Brad started walking toward it, pondering how long it would take the jungle to reclaim all the American detritus, a jeep pulled up. The driver asked Brad to identify himself, then drove him to the Officer’s Quarters in the center of Saigon. When Brad reached for the jeep’s door handle, the driver handed him orders to return to the airstrip in twenty-three hours. His POWs were scheduled to arrive from Hoa Lo at 0-600 and leave at 0-800 for the States.

***

The Officer’s Quarters fit Brad’s image of a classy European hotel. As he went inside, he told himself he wouldn’t know a classy European hotel if it kicked him in the ass.

When he got to his quarters, he showered, shaved, and found himself powerfully attracted to crisp sheets and padded pillows that appeared to constitute evidence of an extremely comfortable bed. He examined the issue more closely—and next opened his eyes to a moonlit sky.

The city was sparking with nocturnal life. A Babel of English, French, and Vietnamese thrust itself through the room’s open window. Voices were mingled with ringing bicycle bells, swishing tuk-tuks, and a drone of military vehicles.

Brad cursed himself for wasting precious time as he ran down to the lobby and out to the street. A quick visual sweep of the territory indicated his remaining hours were most effectively spent on foot.

Brad took a pass on the seedy bar scene. There was no point in drinking alone. The compact city of Saigon was nestled above the Mekong Delta. If he focused on the town’s night markets and port, he could take a gulp of the city’s essence before his deadline.

The scents coming from the food stalls made his stomach wake up and beg. His mind and digestive tract debated food safety issues while his legs took him past the shops on Dong Khoi Street, toward Ton Duc Thang and the river. The Saigon River—or was it the Mekong?—was filthy. Brad marveled at how something that foul could nourish the beauty he’d seen in daylight.

When Brad got to Le Thanh Ton Street, illegal vendors jumped out of the shadows—Jacks who had no intention of being pushed back into their Boxes. By the time Brad turned west toward the Ben Thanh Market, he had an entourage. It gradually evaporated during the hours he spent examining the market’s silks and lacquer ware. He considered buying his mother a scarf but judged the cost—a guaranteed lecture from her concerning hedonistic frivolity-prohibitive.

Around one in the morning, Brad decided fried pastries and boiling soup would be relatively safe from contamination. His brain commanded his mouth to give his stomach Banh goi and Bun Oc. Those fuelled his legs’ trek toward the bus station.

Now prostitutes were jumping from the shadows. Brad quickened his pace, turning north at Tao Dan Park. He was congratulating himself on his escape when, at Huyen Tran Cong Chua, someone tugged at the back of his loose shirt.

Fed up, Brad turned to swat what amounted to a human mosquito.

Wanna buya map, Mister?

It was a child, at that hour. Her pale, round face almost fluoresced in the lamplight. It was framed by shining black hair, pulled tightly against the nape of her neck by a rubber band. The hair escaped from the constriction, forming a trickling cascade down her back. The girl was no taller than his waist and thin as early sprouting bamboo. That face looked clean but the hand holding her maps was dirt dark.

How old could she be? Nine? Ten? Definitely preteen. But out on the street by herself, at night, by the bus station’s prostitutes.