“Khiem—his heart is broken. You should know this. He was in love with Le Phu.”

I can barely hear Phuong’s quiet voice over the cacophony of insects that night. It’s hard to sleep through the noise, reminding me that I’ve only occasionally heard them on the Trail. Or birds. Or night animals. We’re inside a shallow cave Phuong found, just as darkness was taking hold. She let us build a small fire that was mostly smoke from green wood. We ate sticky rice. We hadn’t asked the villagers for food, so there wasn’t anything else.

“Why are you telling me that?” I ask, not bothering to open my eyes. My eyelids feel too heavy, too bruised. Everything about me is sore.

“So you’ll understand why Khiem did what he did,” she says. “It wasn’t just because you shouted to the American plane.”

“Whatever you say,” I respond curtly. “You don’t have to explain anything. It’s war. We’re enemies. I get it.”

“Yes,” she says. “And we have our orders, and we follow our orders. But …”

She stops.

“But what?” I ask.

“Just, I shouldn’t have let Khiem hurt you like that. It wasn’t right. I knew he was suffering, that he was angry and grieving. Khiem blames you for what happened to Le Phu.”

I clench my jaw, though it aches. I don’t want to feel sorry for Khiem. I don’t want to have sympathy for Phuong, for Le Phu, for anyone. I just want to go home.

“I think he broke my rib,” I say. “It hurts when I breathe. Everything hurts from where he hit me. And you let him.”

“I know,” she says softly. “I’m sorry for that. But you’re right that this is war, and it’s the only explanation for much of what happens that can’t be justified, just as we talked about before. The harshness. The brutality. The indiscriminate deaths. Those kids in the village, the people. How can there ever be enough justification for their lives ending in that terrible way? How can there be justification for their lives ending at all, at their young age? When I was a kid, I played with my brothers and sisters, with my friends at school. My parents took care of us. They made sure we attended to our studies. That we burned sacrifices to our ancestors. That we took care of our grandparents. That we supported the cause of liberation.

“That was before the bombings. Before we heard so many stories of sacrifice, knew so many who went to fight but never returned, or who were wounded, or who were maimed, or who were never again right in their minds. The only way to see this and continue fighting, is to believe in the cause, that it is right and just and that we will prevail. In war, both sides must think this way. But for our side, sacrificing so much more than yours, we can’t afford to question. We can only persist through all that must be endured.”

Phuong grows quiet. The insects do as well, which is strange. Like somebody shushed the whole night.

“Do you want to come sit with me in the mouth of our cave?” she asks after a few minutes. “I can’t sleep yet. I heard you tossing and turning. I know you haven’t been able to sleep, either.”

“What about Khiem?”

She laughs quietly. “You haven’t heard him snoring all this time?”

We move to the opening, her in her quilted mountain jacket, me wrapped in my thin blanket, and lean against a boulder to look up at the stars.

“You know about constellations?” I ask.

“I doubt I know them in the same way you do,” Phuong says.

“Same stars, though, right?” I ask. “I mean the same ones I would see back in America. Because we’re both in the Northern Hemisphere?” Not that you can ever see stars at night over New York. But there’s always the Hamptons.

“Yes,” she says. “I believe they’re mostly the same stars. Maybe that means something.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”

Bats come out, darting past our faces. I can’t tell if they’re leaving the cave or returning to it. Or if they just happen to be in the vicinity.

“I told you where we’re going,” Phuong said, a bat whispering by so close that it ruffles her hair.

“To the Lake in the Sky,” I say.

“Yes. To Nong Fa,” she says. “What I haven’t told you is where we are ordered to take you after, and why we are taking you there first.”

“Are you going to tell me now?” I ask.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“I shouldn’t tell you this. I have my orders, and those must be followed. But sometimes it’s hard. I know how anxious you’ve been. Anyone would be.”

I wait.

She continues. “You were told you can be useful to us. My superiors decided to keep you alive, as a prisoner, and for us to take you to Hanoi, where you might have some propaganda value. And where you might be used in a prisoner exchange for some of our people because your father is CIA.”

“I don’t know that for sure,” I say, simultaneously relieved and terrified to have her confirm what I’ve already known, or at least deeply suspected, all these weeks.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “They believe he’s CIA. And so the instructions are to escort you to Hanoi. But my superiors decided there’s another way you can also be useful.”

“How?” I’m trying to stay calm, but my voice—and my hands—are trembling at the thought of the Hanoi Hilton and what will happen to me there.

“They have identified a man, an officer assigned to the supply station where we stayed in Cambodia, who they suspect is a spy for the Americans. You may remember seeing him.”

“When you came with three men to the bamboo cage? Was it one of them? The spy?” I’m still fighting to keep from letting on how shaken I am.

“Yes,” she says. “A smaller man with glasses. He was told that you are the son of Frank Sorenson, one of the CIA architects of the war on the Reunification Trail. He was also informed that our destination in Laos is Nong Fa and he was given the date we are expected to arrive.”

“Okay,” I say. “So?”

“No one else was told this information. If this man is a spy, we believe he’ll contact the Americans to let them know where they might attempt to rescue you. And if the Americans attempt to rescue you at Nong Fa, then it will be confirmed that this man is the traitor.”

“So I’m like, what, the bait?” This just keeps getting worse and worse.

“Yes,” she says.

“But what will happen? I know you won’t let them take me.”

“No. A unit of our commandos will be there, unseen, waiting for the Americans. There will be an ambush.”

“And they’ll be killed,” I say, crestfallen.

“Perhaps the Americans will retreat,” she says, though I’m not buying it. “Maybe they’ll pull back to safety and give up on the mission. It doesn’t matter either way—whether they stay and fight and perish, or whether they turn and run. Because if they show up at all, we’ll know about our spy, and he can be dealt with.”

“What happens to me?” I ask.

“You and Khiem and I will continue to the North,” she says.

“Why are you telling me all of this?” I ask.

“Because you saved me,” she says. “Twice. And I haven’t forgotten. You are a prisoner and have every reason to hate me. To want to kill me. And yet, you saved my life. I didn’t know why. I still don’t.”

The silence swells between us, until she adds, “If the Americans show up, I want you to stay close to me. It will probably turn violent and keeping close to me is the only way you’ll be safe. I’ve been ordered to stay clear of the firefight if it should happen.”

“And if I run? If I try to warn them about the ambush?”

“You won’t make it,” she says. A pause. And then, “If you run, if you try to warn them about the ambush, I’ll have to kill you myself.”