“Hey, where you going?” A uniformed man emerged from the small guardhouse.
“I look for Bok Roh,” Nang answered in Jarai-tainted Khmer.
“Who? What?”
“My father,” Nang said, shrinking, looking no more than eight.
“Eh, you can’t go in there, kid.”
Instead of fleeing, Nang walked to the man. “Are those the trucks to Bokor?”
The guard eyed him warily.
“My father driver,” Nang said.
As the sun set Chhuon followed his cousin into Phum Sath Din’s nearly idle marketplace. In their left hands they carried their weeding hoes, in their right, curved-bladed rice knives. They walked slowly past the many stalls no longer maintained, past the few stalls with shabby common wares. Gone were the many food stalls with the vast variety of fish, chickens, vegetables, fruits and nuts; gone were the small
