We’re an hour from the underground hospital when we hear, screaming through the air, the earsplitting sound of jets. Explosions rip the world somewhere behind us. Fireballs erupt into the sky. Plumes of white smoke. The jets roar past, low to the ground, then circle back toward the hospital, or the rice paddies, or the road to Saigon: too far away to know. There are more explosions, more fireballs, more smoke. The ground shakes like an earthquake. We all fall.

Phuong is the first to stand, staring hard as if she can see beyond the trees and the brush. The other two guards pull themselves up as well. They tug at her sleeve to get her to go, but she won’t move. They yank me to my feet, both their faces twisted with worry. The jets circle overhead one more time and then turn back toward Saigon. The white smoke turns black, and the sky grows dark as the haze kills the afternoon sun.

We walk for hours afterward. The sky eventually clears, leaving us exposed under the blazing sun, or gasping for air under the stifling shade of overhanging trees that form a winding tunnel through forest, the bushes and bamboo stands and grasses on either side of the trail so thick it makes me claustrophobic.

I beg them—beg Phuong—to untie my hands and take off the noose, but she ignores me. They all do. My neck is rubbed raw from the rope, and with every step the chafing worsens. I can’t see, but imagine rivulets of blood streaming from my throat down the front of my shirt. I can’t feel my hands. I pee myself again as we continue the march. Phuong and the others never seem to tire. They never stop. They never drink from their canteens. Not for those first hours after the bombings. They wear the straw hats so the sun doesn’t bake their heads the way it does mine. I still have the paisley tie around my forehead, partly shading my eyes, but nothing for my sunburned nose and dried, cracked lips.

I try yet again: “Please let me go. I promise I won’t try to escape.”

Then I remember some Vietnamese people speak French, since France ran their country for, like, sixty years. Maybe Phuong does, too. Or one of the other soldiers. Mom made sure I learned French practically from the minute I was born when we lived in Paris.

So I ask Phuong again: “S’il vous plaît, laissez-moi partir. Je promets que je n’essaierai pas de m’échapper.” Please let me go. I promise I won’t try to escape.

She stops. The others stop. I stop. And the next thing I know, my hands are untied and the noose is off.

“Je vous remercie,” I say, rubbing the feeling back into my wrists. I don’t want to touch the raw skin around my throat. Thank you.

Phuong hands me her canteen, and I drink as much as I think I can get away with. The others drink from their canteens, too.

She shrugs and says, “Si vous courez, nous vous tirerons dessus.” If you run, we will shoot you.

We keep going until dusk. The hours in between we spend skirting the edges of more rice paddies, ducking into leafy tunnels that wind through more jungle so thick I can’t see any of the animals I think I hear snuffling off in the brush. We finally stop to rest, and I lean against the trunk of a tall tree with low branches. A snake slides off one of the branches and onto my shoulder. I freeze. It’s small and green and has what look like white lips. Phuong sees it and she freezes, too. The others don’t notice. They’re busy rolling and then sharing a cigarette.

The snake sits on my shoulder for what feels like an hour, but is probably not even a full minute, then winds its way down my torso and my leg and onto the ground. It slithers into the brush. I don’t breathe from the second I feel it until well after it’s gone.

A faint smile of relief crosses Phuong’s face, just for an instant, and then she goes back to the stoic mask she’s been wearing.

In French I ask her what kind of snake it was. She answers in Vietnamese, then, switching languages, saying she doesn’t know the right name for it in French. “Vipère, peut-être.”

I understand viper all right.

“Is it poisonous?” I ask.

“Un peu,” she says. A little.

I think we’ll stop here for the night, much as I don’t want to after just having a viper crawl all over me. But Phuong insists that we push on farther, which is crazy. It grows darker and darker, especially as we descend under another thick canopy of overhanging trees. With no flashlight or torch or even a match to light the path, Phuong seems to be feeling her way forward. Our progress slows to a crawl. I’m bone weary and don’t mind the shuffling pace, though all I want to do is sleep.

When we finally stop, we all collapse on the ground. Phuong lets me drink again from her canteen. From somewhere in his pack, one of the soldiers produces cold sticky rice and peppers, which he shares with Phuong and the other soldier. Phuong places half of hers in my hands, though the soldiers give her disapproving looks. I eat as slowly as I can once again, trying to make it last as long as possible to trick my stomach or my brain into thinking it’s a bigger meal. I sit beside a tree but keep a safe snake-distance from the trunk. We’re in the middle of a small copse a few meters from the trail. Phuong positions one of the men in a sentry position a short way from us, closer to the path, then comes back over and settles on the ground to eat. All they carry are their weapons, ammunition belts, canteens, trenching tools, small packs slung over their shoulders, and what appear to be US Army–issued ponchos.

Phuong and the other soldier wrap themselves in their ponchos, tuck their AK-47s and gear in with them, and fall asleep. I lie on my side and curl up the way I’ve been wanting to all afternoon, but sleep eludes me. As tired as I am, the sights and sounds and smells of the past two days come crashing back down. I go spinning off into a terrified place where I can’t stop thinking about all the blood on me. What if there are more snakes here, more vipers, and they can smell it?

After what must be hours, there’s a soft rustling as the soldier next to Phuong rouses himself and gathers his poncho and equipment and goes off for his turn keeping watch. Phuong mutters something in her sleep. The other soldier comes back. Finally, distracted from my paranoia about the snakes and the blood, I melt to the hard ground, pull the remnants of my suit coat over my head, and sleep.