Frank Thanh Nguyen

(see picture notes below) We camped out in that second-floor stairwell all night, making little nests for ourselves. The youngest children curled into their mothers, occasionally drinking water and eating dry instant noodles. I closed my eyes, and their voices weaved in and out of my dreams. I woke up, choking on stuffy air. The guard was no longer there. A small window cast eerie smoked silver light on some of the children’s faces. Uncle Hieu stood near the cracked ventilation shaft, watching the airport. The pop-pop-popping sound of the shelling continued low staccato hum. “Come see,” my uncle whispered, waving toward me. I stood up, dizzy and dehydrated. My chest ached from the way I’d been curled all night. When I reached the shaft, I stood up on the balls of my feet on the stairs and squinted to look through the arm-sized crack in the shaft. I gasped. The sky was a greenish gray color that didn’t seem like day or night. Long columns of smoke billowed everywhere. “The American Mari