I just tripped on bamboo in Trung’s backyard. It snapped, not too loud but loud enough for him to catch me. We’re eleven, playing “VC” with his four brothers. VC is like Tag, but if you’re “it,” you have to pretend to be the Viet Cong. It’s my turn to be the Viet Cong, but first Trung wants to tell me something broken and jungle dark. His brothers’ laughter betrays their hiding places. I don’t have the heart to find them. Trung tells me about his sister wailing, looking back home, looking ready to turn into salt; about their father’s slap on her cheek followed by a caress on the red spot. The seasick boat rocks and awaits them. The late night air is chilly. Half of Trung’s brothers have peed themselves. I’m the Viet Cong, and I can almost smell it. Ten years later, Trung and I smoke some strong stinky weed together on break from our different colleges, and I lose him in the haze. I look on Facebook and in the phone book. I’ll never find him.