"I don't want to fail you again. Neglect you. I'm just trying to figure things out."

"You don't need to, Vong. I don't need you to. I will find my way."

The Way.

Seng.

The silence in the guestroom was still overbearing. Seng had barely spoken to Vong since she'd put the awful choice in front of him two days ago. He and the Canadian could be free if they'd only turn in Meh. He didn't want to think about it. He tried to figure out how to use the remote control for the guesthouse TV and he learned how to dial the phone to order in food. He didn't even bother to defer to Vong anymore, as he usually would have. Euaigh, what should we eat for dinner?

"Stop," she said the next morning, as he picked up the phone. He put the old, rotary dial phone back on its hook and looked at her. "We don't have any more money," she said flatly.

He sat silently on the yellow guesthouse bedspread for a long time. He flicked through the channels on the TV. The police sirens from a television drama pierced the room. He clicked it off.

"I could sell some stuff," he finally said. "Like I do in Vientiane."

"We don't have anything to sell."

He looked around the room. "You have that backpack. Some things from Canada."

"Who's going to buy my old, worn stuff?"

"You'd be surprised."

But he wasn't even convincing himself. He felt light-headed.

"Can't Chit send us some cash?"

"Maybe, but then I'd have to give the bank my name. You have to show identification to pick up wired money."

Seng flipped the remote over and over in his hand. Finally Vong said she was going out.

"Where?" he asked.

"I need some fresh air," she said.

She never went out for fresh air anymore. She thought it was too risky. Morning slowly gave way to afternoon as Seng waited. He started to imagine that someone had spotted her on the street and turned her in, or she had become mixed up in the countless dangerous ways people make money in this swarming city so they can survive. The hunger gnawed on the sides of his stomach, but he stopped noticing. To lift up even one heavy arm seemed like a ch.o.r.e.

Through the thin guesthouse wall he could hear a TV in the room beside him. He heard a car revving its engine outside the window. Smelled fried rice being prepared in someone's kitchen. Heard the shrill call of a police siren. A cool November breeze seeped in through the window and he shivered.

By the time she came back, the room was black with night and Seng could see white starbursts whenever he closed his eyes. He had never been so hungry. He was actually glad for the faint, fuzzy feeling in his head. It was helping him keep his mind off Meh and the Canadian.

"Let's go see Meh tomorrow," Vong said.

Seng was so lethargic from hunger that he just nodded.

The next morning they locked the wooden guesthouse door with a clunky key. Their footsteps echoed as they walked down the empty hall. All of the guests would be out, touring the ornate grounds of the Royal Palace or laying on mattresses to get ma.s.sages at Wat Po. They were going out to see the mother they had lost so many years ago, to watch her slip through their hands once more.

They found themselves at a crowded bus stop, where the thick smell of diesel met Seng's nose.

"Shouldn't we walk?" Seng asked. "We don't have any money."

"I found a few baht in a pocket in my backpack," Vong said.

He watched families from the grimy window. A young mother held her toddler's hand. A family of four jammed onto one singular motorbike. A man gently held an elderly gentlemen's elbow as they navigated their way through the teeming streets.

They got off in front of their mother's apartment building. The beggar and her young daughter recognized them.

"Apartment 8 up there," the poor woman said.

"Thanks."

Seng stopped and met the beggar's eyes, soft brown and watery. Vong reached in her purse, she said she was looking for a kanom she had bought to snack on a couple days before and pa.s.sed it to the poor woman. Vong had snacks in her purse?

The woman inspected the cake wrapped in clear plastic, held it up to her nose, and sniffed, and pa.s.sed it to her daughter. The little girl hastily tore the package open and chewed hungrily.

"You must be hungry, too," Seng said to the woman.

"Children first."

"Of course," Seng said. Motherhood before hunger.

They climbed the grey, dusty staircase to the eighth floor. Maybe Meh would be having one of her clear moments. He would find a way to make it better for her, for all of them. He knocked on the blue door, but there was no answer. He knocked a bit louder. He turned to look at Vong, but she looked down the hall uncomfortably. He placed his ear against it, but couldn't hear any noise inside. From behind him he heard a door creaking on its hinges. It was the toothless woman from across the hallway.

"She's not here," the woman said. "She said she was going home. A man came and helped her pack up her things. He said he would make sure she got back to her country safely."

"Back to Laos? What man?" Seng's heart was racing. He looked back and forth between Vong and the woman. "What's going on?"

"He looked Lao or Thai, but he could only speak English," the woman explained. "I didn't understand much of what he said."

"Vong, what's going on?" Seng demanded.

"Chit," she said in a small voice. "It was Chit." Then she fell onto her knees in the hallway and wept.

Seng turned and ran as fast he could.

Merit.

Cam.

"Take all of your things," the guard with the missing front tooth said.

I looked at him, confused. Why did I need to take all of my things? Wouldn't I come back from the interrogation room?

"Muht! Everything."

I turned around to look at Sai. He made his breath loud and audible. He was breathing for me. I could barely get an inhale.

I shoved the little bit of stuff I had under one arm - a toothbrush; a bar of soap; the thin, Thai farmer pants I wore to sleep. The guard clutched me by the other arm and led me down the hallway. My throat thickened as I wondered what they would do to me. I remembered the blood-curdling screams coming from the interrogation room. Whatever they did, they would never be able to take away the day I had helped the collapsed prisoner. On that day I had undone my own cage, found my own victory.

The guard led me past the fish ponds and in between the garden hedges. When we marched past the visitor's hut my heart began to thunder so hard I thought it might break my ribs. I could see the interrogation hut now. I tried not to think about the guards waiting there for me. The ones instructed to conduct the torture. From my peripheral vision I noticed the empty guard tower on the east corner of the compound. For some reason that one was rarely manned, just like Sai had said. I scanned the guard roughly dragging me along. I was bigger than him, but I was weak from my months in prison. Still, I thought I could take him. The compound was post-lunch quiet. I spotted one guard dozing on the veranda. This was my chance. I eyed the guard's pistol dangling from his hip. It didn't seem to be fastened to anything - just tucked carelessly into his pocket. If I moved quickly enough I could grab it.

The prison's main gate wasn't far from the interrogation room. I would wait until we were there to make my move. It was risky, in broad daylight and everything, but I didn't have another option. I wasn't stepping foot in the interrogation room. I would rather die. I heard a rooster cackling from the vegetable garden. I would pretend to stumble and knock the guard's gun from its holster. I was bigger, I'd be able to handle him. No one else seemed to be around.

But something stopped me dead in my tracks.

Something moved in my peripheral vision - something waving and white, like a flag of surrender.

I turned to look.

It was Mom.

She was waving wildly from the red prison gate and beaming from ear to ear. I suddenly realized that the guard was leading me toward her! I began to quicken my pace. Soon I was running. The guard, in a flash of compa.s.sion, jogged along beside me. I think he was smiling.

Mom was sobbing. The guard fiddled with a ring of keys at his hip. The door clanged as he slid it open and released me.

Before I knew it I was standing in front of my mom with nothing between us - no bars, and no resentment. Nothing but the moment existed. She clutched me to her heaving chest. "The driver of the bike. It was Nok's brother. He turned himself in. You're free, Cam. The charges have been dropped. You're free!"

Seng.

I remembered Nok saying his name.

I dropped to my knees. My mom encircled me, my hair growing damp with her tears. I was free - in more ways than one.

Shine.

Seng.

Every day she comes. She brings a basket of sticky rice, some spring rolls, a little bit of padek. She arrives at his cell door, shoulders rounded, eyes not understanding why she is here or how she came to be at this place. She doesn't seem to know that it is her son she serves every day. The guards think she is just a spring-roll lady from downtown Vientiane trying to build her merit.

After a guard opens the cell door and she slides the food toward Seng across the dank, cement floor, she pauses. She stares at her son. A bewildered, puzzled look on her face. But underneath the fog, behind the confusion, there is something in her eyes.

Seng thinks it is love.

Somehow it persists.

Through sickness and fear, through judgment and years, it shines, despite everything.

Sai's One-Minute Breath.

The One-Minute Breath instructions provided in this book have been reviewed and approved by the Kundalini Research Inst.i.tute (KRI).

This breath pattern, taught to Cam in jail by Sai, was originally taught by Yogi Bhajan, Master of Kundalini Yoga. It calms anxiety, fear and worry. Ask your health-care pract.i.tioner if it's right for you.

For each count of 20, begin with a count of 8 seconds. As your lung capacity builds, you can slowly work your way up to a count of 20.

Inhale through the nostrils for 20 seconds.

Hold the breath for 20 seconds.

Try to relax around the suspended breath. Don't tighten your face or other muscles.

Exhale through the nostrils for 20 seconds.

Repeat for 5 minutes.

For powerful results practice every day.

For more information consult an instructor of Kundalini Yoga as taught by Yogi Bhajan in your area.

Acknowledgements.

I am grateful to the people of Laos and what they have taught me with their open hearts and dedication to what truly matters in life. I am also thankful to Yogi Bhajan, master of Kundalini Yoga, who risked his life to bring teachings like the One-Minute Breath to us.

Thanks to my editor, Shannon Whibbs, and all of the people at Dundurn who have worked on this book. It would not be in your hands without Sylvia McConnell, who believed in it enough to take it against great odds. Thanks to my teacher, Sharelle Byars Moranville, whose comments helped me see the forest for the trees and to Rick Taylor, who has been generous with his time and help.

I would like to thank my first readers, who bravely agreed to comment on early drafts: Jean-Philippe Veilleux, Cole Powell, Bethany Powell Archambault, Imran Arshad, Bert Powell, Paula Powell, Roger Mollot, and Zo Boutilier. I'm grateful to Gwen Frankton for her creativity and generosity.

Thanks to my parents, who have enthusiastically read everything I've ever written, and to my daughter, who at ten years old is better at promoting my work than myself. Grat.i.tude also goes to my two sons, who were the inspiration for the love between mothers and sons that I attempted to explore in this book.

Finally, thank you to Imran, whose love, support, and belief in me makes impossible things possible.