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+Morning smells of the smoky charcoal burning beneath his window. The city is long awake. Martin Ives lies in bed staring at the swollen blisters of plaster ceiling, waiting for them to burst. He has been awake for some time, listening to the city come to life. He scratches his belly through the thin, yellowed fabric of his undershirt. The alarm clock begins to buzz.
+
+He pauses in the doorway downstairs, overwhelmed by the glare and heat. The sun glints off the distant high rises. The city rings around him, moto horns, tuk-tuk bugles, bicycle bells. Two children laugh as they roll a pair of tire rims clanging down down the street, flicking them along with thin bamboo poles as they running alongside. 
+
+Martin walks around the corner and places his order at the cart. The thin strips of meat hiss on the grill. The heat from the smoldering coals brings beads of sweat to his forehead and sends them down his cheeks. Her face shows no trace of sweat. She pours the sauces together in a plastic bag, dunks his pork and hands it to him.
+
+He buys a bag of pineapple on the dock and munches on it, watching the muddy brown river undulate past. It flows like a restless sleeper thrashing at the sheets. Longtail motors churn and chop and the longer rolling wakes of ferry boats. The water burps bunches of soggy earth clinging to roots of water plants. Martin hears the calmer water behind him begin to bubble and roil. He turns and watches as hundreds of the fish surface in the impossibly small area between docks, their sliver bellies streaking in the morning light. They wriggle and squirm like eels, fighting their way to the little pelts of food thrown by bored commuters. 
+
+People begin to stand as the ferry approaches from upstream; it's already crowded. He wads up the rest of the pineapple, shoves it in his pocket and climbs aboard the ferry. The boatman yells something in Thai and pilot guns the engine, pulling out into the river. 
+
+He stands near the bow, watching the banks pass by, Wat Rakhang, Memorial Bridge, Wat Arun. The river smells of fish and rotted vegetables. Women wash clothing in the river water, children leap from pylons into it. The boat surges upward, over the wake of a cross river ferry, and the water splashes up in in a high arc that moves in slow motion, a solid body separating, breaking apart and regrouping. He watches as it splatters down around him, darkening his sleeves and the front of his coat.
+
+At Saphan Taksin Martin exits with the rest of the crowd and makes his way up the stairs to the sky train. At one stop he spies a group of Red Shirts gathered around a soup stall, hunched over tables. The brazenness surprises him. The train accelerates off again.
+
+Martin is midway through sorting two new piles of refugee immigration information when Jerry descends on him. Martin keeps his head down, give no sign of acknowledgement. He stares at the words on the page. It's easy to loose yourself in the words. The Hmong have no real concept of surnames, no patronymic or matronymic system that anyone knows of and they often change their names several times in the course of their lives. It makes Martin's job very nearly impossible, though he suspects the Thai authorities simply throw away the forms Martin processes anyway. His boss Michele, and presumably her bosses somewhere back in Geneva, likely feel different.
+
+He is aware that Jerry is speaking, he can hear his voice, but the words have not reached him yet, they move slowly toward him, if he looks up he thinks he might see them, floating down like the little plastic rings Martin used to play with at the community pool when he was a boy.
+
+"They're sending us out in the field."
+
+"What?" Martin glances up to see Jerry pulling the last of some mysterious ball of meat off a long skewer with his teeth. Jerry licks his finger tips and smacks his lips. "You and I, Martin. We get to go out," he waves his hand to the north, "there... somewhere. Chang Mai I believe."
+
+Martin stares blankly at Jerry, remembering the one and only time he had agreed to go with Jerry for drinks after work, how Jerry had brought along his Thai girlfriend, how much Martin desperately wanted to punch the man in his sweaty red cornfed Ohio face every time he pawed at the woman's ass on the Skytrain. But he had not. Martin simply squirmed in discomfort and tried to step away from the couple, ignoring the ugly stares of the other people on the train.
+
+"Relax old boy, it'll be fun, get you out of the city, dip your wick even." He smiled. "Oh shit, Here comes Michelle now. Back to work." Jerry scurried off back to his cubicle at the other end of the room.
+
+Martin watches as Michelle made her way across the office toward Martin's cubicle. 
+
+"He told you didn't he?"
+
+"Chang Mai?"
+
+"He's such a worthless piece of crap."
+
+Martin arches an eyebrow. "Can't you fire him?"
+
+"And replace him with whom exactly? He's an asshole, but he shows up."
+
+Martin ponders taking on Jerry's workload simply to never have to see him again, but decides it isn't worth it. "So, Chang Mai?"
+
+"Chang Mai."
+
+-----------------------------
+
+They took a night bus. Martin hated buses. Hated to cars too. He never slept on anything that moved. Jerry gave him two Ambien before he crawled in his own berth and began to snore. Martin sat up, talked to a Japanese salaryman on his way to procure rattan furniture in Chang Mai. Martin nodded patiently as the man talked of Thai girls and massage parlors, but was relieved when the man finally turned away and propped his pillow against the window before nodding out. 
+
+Martin watched a pair of German backpackers play a card game until both lost interest. The night dragged on, most passengers fell asleep. Martin put on his headphones and listened to Daniel Carter. In front of him, down the aisle he could watch the stripes in the road through the massive windshield. The stripes came like arrows shot out of the asphalt, rushing toward him and then disappeared under the bus. 
+
+He remembered the desert night, the small arc of headlights carving out. The white lines blinking on, as if sent from infinity. Martin was in the back seat, leaning forward, his head resting on the cool leather of the bench seat in front of him. His father was driving, his windows down, his arm resting on the door. Martin could see him smiling in the side mirror, white Cheshire cat teeth hanging in the darkness of his black beard. His mother slept, leaning against the passenger door. The wind rushed in his fathers window, dragging the smell of creosote and sage into the back seat. Martin watched kangaroo rats and rabbits bouncing in the sand, leaping out of the arc of lights that chased them back into the desert beyond the road. He felt the wind playing through the blond hair on his arm, battering at it until the skin went numb. He lay down in the back seat and listen to the sound of the air and night wrap itself around him. 
+
+He woke up in the hospital. His legs were broken. Every movement sent searing shocks of pain through his body. After a while he began to see them coming, like white lines rushing out of the darkness toward him. He stopped crying so much. He became quiet. He became still. The doctors said it was good. The nurses smiled, left contraband candy in his hands when they changed the bedpan. Feelings swelled inside him like enormous balloons of light, threatening to burst out of him if he did not lay incredibly still. He lay still and dreamed of his parents. He dreamed of the wind pulling at the hair of his arm. He cried. 
+
+The bus pulls off at a Caltex station. Martin sits up and wipes his eyes. He jams the memory back down in the floorboards of his mind, where it belongs, where it stays, asleep and unknown, save for rare nights when he he was awake late enough to hear it get up and rummage about in the refrigerator, looking for something to feed it. 
+
+The driver steps outside and lights a cigarette. Martin follows him. He blinked in the harsh glare of florescent lights and nodded at the driver before walking away, toward the well lit insides of the Caltex mini mart. In the bathroom he washed his face and threw the Ambien in the toilet.
+
+He bummed a cigarette from the driver. A gradient of light fell across the parking lot, fading fading into darkness around the white lines of parking spaces. There was no else around. The driver grunted behind him. They climbed back into the bus.
+
+--------------------
+
+Here is the form. Here is the woman to fill out. The woman can't write. The woman can't speak English. Martin can't speak much Hmong. A young boy acts as interpreter. The young boy spells out the names, Martin fills in the boxes on the form. The days roll away. Men, women, children; Martin writes for them. Then Jerry types it up and sends it back to Bangkok. Sometimes papers come back. The men and women and children are grateful, some clutch his hand, others cry. And then there are gone. 
+
+The camp is twenty miles north of Chang Mai, in the low foothills that lead up to the Burmese border some five miles northwest of the camp. Martin and Jerry stay in temporary trailers that have been erected by the Army. He glances up from his desk at the tent city beyond the window. It starts as tents, with orderly, if muddy streets running between them. Some two thousand people camped in a sea of mud. At the edge of the tents begin the less fortunate, the late arrivals, the tents give way to a squatters village, scraps of metal sheeting braces against bamboo poles, car doors held up with baling wire, tires stacked to form a wall, cardboard tables, stones piled for a fire pit, scraps of heavy cloth torn from the military trucks that bring food draped over doorways. 
+
+There are a dozen westerners in the camp. Most are volunteers, college students saving the world. They drive down to Chang Mai on the weekends and come back with cases of beer. They keep to themselves and Martin makes no effort to join in. He isn't sure what to say to the young anymore. The world can't be saved? The world can be saved? There is no world to save? There is nothing but world and it doesn't need saving. 
+
+The summer heat is just starting. There is no air conditioning. Martin lies awake at night sweating, tossing in his cot, wondering what saving means. The first night he dreamed of Havasupi, plunging from the cliffs into the cold, clear water. He dreamed of the Everstons, his step sister Emily and her boyfriend Tom. The took him hiking, up behind the waterfall over slippery smooth rocks until they reached the top. The sky was endless, long sweeps of thin cloud written from one end to the other. Contrails of airplanes. Tom jumped in the water and disappeared over the falls. Emily went next. Martin waited. Afraid. He sat down in the water, but did not push off. He wakes up drenched in sweat.
+
+He gets up and wanders the camp. The Medicines Sans Frontiers doctor, Chambers, is sitting up in the mess tent, drinking Mekong whiskey by the light of a small candle. He invites Martin to join him, pours him a paper cup of whiskey.
+
+"Terrible stuff, rot your gut," he chuckles, "but it's all we got."
+
+Weeks pass. Little changes. Government trucks haul some away, off to life in the city, some small town, somewhere else. But always more come. Martin begins to suspect that the only way he will ever escape this place is to jump on one of the trucks, quit his job and just disappear. He drinks late into the night, enjoying the warm burn of Mekong firewater in his belly. And Chambers seems to enjoy the company, though they don't speak much. Mostly listen to the night, watch the mosquitoes zigzag through the candlelight. 
+
+"How did you end up here Ives?"
+
+"Got transferred."
+
+"Not here. I mean, here at all, in Thailand."
+
+Martin shrugs in the dark, "I needed a change."
+
+"Originally?"
+
+"Arizona."  You?"
+
+"Berkley." 
+
+Martin nods. Chambers seems to have no more interest in subject, it is merely a means of classifying. Everything here can be reduced to location. Really there is only here now, Martin thinks. There was there, but Martin is no longer sure that he was really there when he was there. Here was still here when I was there, still waiting for me, but now I am here and there is everywhere. But there is something I can remember, I think. But when I was there was I really there? 
+
+Chambers swirls his whiskey around the bottom of the paper cup. An old woman walks by the tent, waving a smoking bunch of plants, whispering something in Hmong. She stops to watch the men. Chambers smiles, waves, calls out good evening in Hmong.
+
+He turns to Martin, "have you met Ma-Lee?"
+
+It's dark, Martin can barely make out the womans face floating somewhere in the darkness beyond the candle lit table and mosquito netting of the tent. Martin doesn't want to say it, but Hmong names all blur together for him now, a long mashed together string of nearly unpronounceable syllables that simply stands for everyone, names everyone. Everyone all at once. The name of god Martin thinks. He shakes his head in the dark.
+
+"She wouldn't have come into the office, she's got no plans to stay here." Chambers waves her in, pulls a chair up to the table and pours her a small cup of whiskey. She smiles and takes a seat. 
+
+Daw San Suu Ma-Lee looks to be in her eighties, though Martin has a hard time telling the age of Hmong or Thai or Cambodians, they seems to have only two ages, young children and then old men or women, where they exist in between these poles, Martin is not sure.
+
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