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The road is straight and leads away from Athens or Barstow or Paris, Texas, where concrete mixes up with the dirt of the land, and men and women tend gas stations happy in their isolation. It was not what they had expected but after everything else they had taken it. Maggie and Ray stand on the road like statues in the sun with Maggie a little behind, watching the ground in front of her feet. Maggie is fifteen. She curls the corners of her mouth up and rubs the nape of her neck. She nods to no one and shows pretty teeth. Her shoulders are bare. The alate blades are finely wrought; the belly belongs to a girl; the legs to a tall girl; the shoulders to a young woman. Paul kicks up dirt and their eyes never catch, never meet. Ray speaks in imperatives. The way he bends his body towards Maggie as he raises his left hand to claw her to him is an entreaty to allegiance against Paul. After a thoughtful moment Maggie says, Do you want to go, Paul? Her skin is patterned with sweat. Paul already knows what Ray will say; can hear the music drifting towards him, the challenge of it. You always let your mom decide what you do? Are you a coward? The creek is just a mile in from the road. Paul spits and watches the spit heat on the hard dirt of the ground and tugs a little at the frayed cuffs of his jean jacket and walks in the direction Ray was pointing towards. The trees around them are thicker and the air is dense with moisture. Even if it is in a clearing of forest in America, in the mainland or closer to the coasts where littoral winds carry primal salts from other shores, the trailer that Paul Maggie and Ray find could be from anywhere. Its windows are shut and covered. An empty coffee can rolls on the ground. The sound and smell of unseen dogs, their shadows passing aberrations. Paul is not thinking about or or because the truth is he wants to find the creek and show Ray and Maggie he is not a coward and make it back to school like his mother said. He likes the way Maggie walks next to him, the cunning in her steps, the kindness in the way she clears a path for him. Paul is not used to the sensation that comes from her casual touch, the wellspring of affection it opens in him. He stands dazed, favoring his shoulder, while Maggie and Ray pick things up and toss them down. From the outside, where Paul and Ray and Maggie are, it looks like no one is living in the trailer. But there is a man. There is also the scent of urine and stale beer. It is heavy with the detritus of life. Posters and ads hang all over the walls. Some of them look very old. There are pictures of helmeted marching men. One shows a shouting man pointing a gun at another man who kneels in front of him. In another, a plane drops fire onto lush jungle, thickset trees. They are organized in no particular pattern. He is anxious to leave. If there were only moments he might lose himself, and forget the obligation that dogs him. To Maggie, for love. To Ray, for weakness. And each for the other. The creek would then not matter, nor the overriding desire to leave the clearing and find it. Maggie plays with the dogs. Ray turns firewood over, smelling rusted cans for gasoline. There is fire he must perpetually light, burning the path to discovery. The door of the trailer opens and a man says, Would you all like some beer? Running around and doing God knows what. He laughs. A charmer. He lifts the lid using the big toe of a sandaled foot. He is already sitting at the edge of a damp fire pit, motioning to grab a can. The man tosses one to him and turns to Paul. A rose and a sword. Asian lettering. The man does not give Maggie her turn. He pretends not to notice her, but while she is perhaps uncertain in the half-pose of her arms, pulled between the charm of the danger in front of her and her better instincts, animated by some promise of pain she has not yet felt in her life, confused at the new power it has over her, he tosses her a can too. Then the man sits at the fire pit and talks with them and introduces his dogs, which reappear from outside the clearing. One is named Ho Chi Minh. The other is called Tango. They growl a little and sniff at ankles and knees. You like it, he says. Then he pets his snout and nose and laughs, his knees spasm up to his chin. Paul understands that the man knows about children and how one might talk to them. He knows they will react to the inflection of authority in his voice. He will mask it with humility or pass it off as kindness, as one passes off violence as a lesser evil, a necessity. It dawns on Paul now that they will never reach the creek. Whatever impulse has led them to this nearly abandoned trailer and drunken hulk of a man has the touch of finality, some working design. From where the knowledge comes is hard to say. They shine the color of cut gemstones, sea-agate. Tell me your names, he says. Then, for half an hour they talk, about swimming, the town, oral sex, football, trailers, what they like to do on their days off school. You play hooky? I know you do, he says with a dumb smile. But not Paul, not Maggie. Which one of you has done it? Done it? He passes Maggie more beer and presses close to her under cover of conversation. Once, she returns his glances with a caress, a touch of her fingertips across his eyelashes and damp forehead. He puts his hand on her back. The skin covering her spine tightens and the pupils in her eyes dilate. She straightens her body and reddens, digging her right hand, the one mostly hidden from him by her body, into the ground beneath her. There is a spot of sweat on her upper lip, and while she moves to wipe it away he grips her arm, tightening his hand a little. The man laughs at his own voice, as if to ease a tension within him, to erase the weight of what he has just said. The fourth beer is the loveliest, Maggie. The liver is a strong and vital organ. Paul has been sent into the trailer for more beer. Inside, the smell stuns him. Nothing has ever been cleaned. The posters are stuck to every surface. The walls, the ceiling, the bed, a teakettle, shelves, mugs, a small desk, the windows. Each poster has a message, a code he cannot grasp. Before seeing the inside of the trailer, he had thought that the man was a drunk who might stay in the clearing through the end of winter and move on when the weather would permit it. But now, looking at the images, which seem to warp and spiral above him, and cast a possessed glow through the six beer bottles he has in his hands, he feels in his bones that the man will never leave. He has been there since the morning and since ten or twenty years ago, reliving an ancient wound, prodding it, trying to make sense of it. Slamming the screen door, balancing the bottles in his arms, Paul is happy to leave the trailer behind him. It was raining. While the village seemed to melt away the jungle closed itself off, performed libations and suffered in private. I knew two brothers and their sister there, he says. They played war games using sticks as guns. The seriousness of their battle, the correct use of firing angles and high ground made him stop to watch. Such limbs, what sideways grace. Later, between marches and firefights he spent idle days watching the waters. He drank cans upon cans of beer and tried to swim in the rain. Blacking out felt good. Do you know where Can Tho is, he says. No, none of them know where it is. How about that, a hell of a lot far away. You can see bits of it in the trailer, did you look Paul. I bet you looked. I would. Paul had looked. Buzzed on the fifth can of beer he had seen photos of jungles choked with smoke. In newspaper photographs, wounded children stood in burning courtyards. The skin peeled off of their backs. When he gets closer to Maggie it lifts him upward and his eyes go dull. Paul senses that he is the only one to spot it. Ray and Maggie still take him for a novelty, a crazy man of the neighborhood. The fire dies for a second, spent by a gust of wind. They stare at it. It reignites. Friendly fire. He presses close to Maggie again and reaches where her legs fork, smelling her neck behind the ear, teething her nape, reaching through her shorts. She looks skyward, as if giving in to a minor annoyance. Then she takes his hands in hers, shoving him away a little, and stands over him. Deep as hell. Can you find it? Which one of you finds it? The dogs sometimes scare them away. Why, this morning when I saw you three the first thought I had was that the boy I killed had come back to haunt me, he says. How about that? He rambles about the possibility of ghosts, South Asian death threats, a finely crafted blade. They scatter like birds and never come back. Ray searches the clearing, hacks at vines with a piece of plywood, uproots bushes. Close, closer, cold as a river, the man says. Maggie is petting the dogs again, taking their paws into her hand. Where do you think it is, Maggie? A cloud parts, and sunlight shines on Maggie. Dampness falls from trees and a few white blossoms that hang from them like broken water pitchers. Paul watches her. Wind pulls at her hair, bending it sideways. But he has been burned by these tricks of light before. She follows Tango to a clearing, swiping at a clump of grass three feet tall. Ray and the man are looking for a shovel. When Paul reaches her, he brushes his hand against hers, and then pulls it away. She takes it, and pulls him down, and they lie in the little clearing. A crescent moon has risen just below the sun. Paul turns over and puts his hand on her belly. Paul feels blood stir in his groin. He gags. Tango, she says, where are you Tango? Half an hour later it begins to rain. The man has taken the stones from the ground. Afterwards he took a dull axe to the tree, and Ray helped him cut it down. They are the color of green milk. He gives one to each of them. Maggie is pleased. Ray throws his into the forest, watching its arc in the overcast sky before it disappears in the thickness of trees. Paul likes the way the smooth stone feels, and rubs it in his hands. The dogs seem restless, whimpering, baying. In the soft rain the trailer glows a little, its metal exterior shining and sleek. The world slows down. Ray is searching for gasoline again. Knocked him out with a shovel and stolen them. The man and Maggie are behind the trailer. The dirt makes spirals on her neck, her collarbone, the shirt that runs down the curve of her back. Then, Maggie says, No. Have you ever seen these burn? What is the logical conclusion of his observation? What has the man done to deserve another day alive, after all, or an intact trailer, pre-fire? The ads and fields going up in smoke. Paul turns up the ashes in the fire pit, smelling them on his hands, rubbing them below his eyes. The man is elsewhere, ducking under bushes, playing war games. After a while, a little shining cloud floats above the trailer. Is it a portal? Ray says. Maggie steps near it. It sucks at her a bit, Paul thinks, though not enough to lift her off the ground. Later, Ray and Maggie are fooling around. There is such small glory in unrequited love, and freedom in six cans of beer. The creek is west of the road, but just a minute from the clearing the man is on his back on the ground. Paul crouches over him, breathing onto his face. He might sleep a little better this way, or wake up closer to home. Who takes care of your mom, Paul? Maggie says. She takes care of herself. Just a beer, he says. The boys and the girl sit around him. Are you related? No, Maggie says. Paul and Ray look up from their beer cans. Are you from town? Where do you go? Into the woods with my dogs. You two take care of Maggie? Good for swimming, says the man. The man looks disappointed. What does your tattoo mean? It means I was in Vietnam, and they gave me a tattoo there. What does it say? He pulls back. Pats her on the knee. She bends her body away. You are children, with thoughts and desires of your own. You look like a dead dog, cloven at the skull. Do you know how old I am? Is that where the pictures are from? Some of them, yeah. Were they your friends? The brother and their sisters. I shot the damn brother. I shot him. The will and the sinew are strong, he says. Be nice to me, Maggie. Ray gets up too. What are the posters in your trailer? You liked them, yeah? What are they? Tell you what to be. Where did you get them? O all over. Paul says. Stones, says Maggie. Pretty though, Maggie says.

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