The 87-Day Consort: From a Nan Farmhouse to a Prison Cell
I. Nan
Rain in Nan lasts.
Under the eaves of her house stood seven plastic sandals, largest to smallest. Hers sat in the middle. A strap had broken once, mended with metal heated over fire. The scar stayed. Her parents left before dawn for the fields and came back with mud on their cuffs. Dinner was sticky rice and salted fish. One fish, cut into pieces, one for each person. She ate fast, wiped the bowl with her fingers, licked it, then lit the kerosene lamp. The wick was short. The flame jumped. She did homework under it, letters small and crowded.
