CHAPTER FIVETHE INTERNATIONAL NEW YEAR had passed (the Cambodian New Year falls in mid-April) and the dry season was upon the land. Cahuom Chhuon broke from his heavy labor. His pants were soaked with sweat and stuck in his crotch. He had eaten less and less each day for six months and his once stocky body was light, not frail but wiry. He mopped his brow with a rag, a worn krama Sok had begun to use for cleaning. When he’d grabbed it he’d felt a certain pleasure, a certain acknowledgment in the denial to himself of a new krama. For a month he’d washed it daily in the river when he’d broken from his chores.
Chhuon sat beneath a tree at the river’s edge. The afternoon sun bore through the branches to bake him but he did not move. He’d rinsed in the current, washed the rag, wrung it and sat
