With hope being my guiding light, I journeyed on. Sometimes when I allowed myself a good sleep, I’d go into a village and ask people to let us stay the night. I paid for it. There were plenty of thieves around, true, but many country people opened their doors to us. We slept on dirt floors, or, if we were lucky, in a nest made out of straw. Thinking back to those days, I miss the smell of dry rice straw. It was like perfume, the perfume of my sleep.

So I walked, and walked, and walked. I looked for Minh wherever I was, but there was never any sign of him.

I was exhausted at the end of each day. I experienced many moments of despair. Even now, sometimes in my dreams, I find myself marching with the bamboo pole braced across my shoulder, my baskets heavy, the road in front of me stretching until eternity. I wake with sweat dampening my back.

Once, on the way to a village, I broke down crying. Around me, rice plants began rustling their tiny, green hands. They were offering me their most soothing rice lullaby. I realized that whenever humans failed us, it was nature who could help save us.

I willed myself to be like nature, so I found myself singing, just like the rice plants. I sang to Sáng and to myself. I sang out loud and in silence. I was determined to sing on. I learned then that as long as I have my voice, I am still alive.

IT WAS DECEMBER 1955, two months after running away from my village, that I carried Sáng into the winter of Hà N?i. A drizzle blanketed the city. Everything was shrouded in a mysterious mist. I’d bought us each a thick winter jacket and a woolen scarf, but still, I was shivering.

Wrapping Mrs. Tú’s cloth around my head, I felt the warmth of her love. I hoped our escape hadn’t brought her trouble.

It was late in the afternoon when we arrived at a paved road edged with tall trees. A few houses stood desolate. Not a soul was in sight. How could I ask for directions to Silver Street, where Master Th?nh lived?

I looked up at the darkened sky. I’d covered Sáng’s basket. He sat inside, bundled in warm clothes, poking his little head out.

“L?a.” Sáng babbled, pointing toward a street corner, which had just come into view. Behind a tree, a circle of people huddled around a large bonfire. The fire crackled, raging against the wind and rain. I had to be that fire, raging against all odds.

I pressed forward, calling out my greeting to the group. As they turned, I halted in my steps. They were all men, all looking vicious. Anger and hunger glinted in their eyes.

Clutching the ropes that bound the baskets, I hurried away, my eyes on the slippery road. “Sit still,” I told Sáng. I sensed that I had tránh v? d?a g?p v? d?a—dodged melon skin only to stumble on coconut shell.

“Hey, why are you leaving us so fast, Sister?” someone shouted. A chorus of laughter exploded. Not the friendly type of laughter.

Several men leaped onto the road, blocking my path. “I asked why you’re leaving us,” grunted a voice.

A man faced me. His eyes were hollow, his cheeks sunken, thin hair sticking to his skull. The stench of liquor rose from his filthy clothes.

He snatched the nón lá from my head. “Show me that beautiful face of yours.” Mrs. Tú’s carrying cloth fluttered onto the road.

I stepped back, clutching the ropes tighter, glancing down at Sáng. I had to protect my baby, no matter what. “Please . . . let me go. My husband and his friends are waiting for us.”

“Oh, what a cute middle-region accent.”

A yellow-toothed man leaned over at me. His bloodshot eyes pierced into mine. “Husband? Where? Where’s the lucky bastard?”

I pointed straight ahead. My hand was shaking. I couldn’t help it.

The men threw back their heads, laughing.

“She’s afraid of you, Brother.” A man with a mustache elbowed the yellow-toothed man.

“She’s lying. Teach her a lesson,” said another man. Cheers followed his voice.

Sáng started to cry. Someone had snatched away his hat. I picked my baby up, holding him against my chest. I rocked and hummed to him, but he was so frightened, he kept screaming.

“Brothers, please.” Tears blurred my eyes. “You’re scaring my son. Please, let us go.”

“Tell him to shut up,” someone snapped.

I rubbed Sáng’s back. I tried to rest his face against my shoulder, but he turned away. His fearful cries rose higher.

Whap. A smacking noise. The yellow-toothed man had slapped Sáng. “Shut up, little monster!” he hissed.

I shielded my son with my bare hand. “You’re a monster yourself to hit a child!” I screamed.

“Ah, a tigress,” laughed a man. Something glimmered in his hand. A knife. Its tip glided under my scarf, pressing against my neck.

“Stop making a scene, or else,” the man growled, his palm over my mouth.

Sáng quivered in my arms. I held him tight. As the men searched my clothes, I gritted my teeth. If I moved, they could harm my baby.

“Shit, this bitch is rich.” They chuckled.

“Drop everything into these hats, idiot. It’s not just for you,” a voice barked.

Coins and notes were pulled out of my pockets. The coins and notes soaked with the sweat of my hard work and sorrow, the coins and notes that would bring me back to my children.

“This money is my life,” I shouted, but my voice was a gurgle inside my throat.