They finally pick one way; I go the opposite. They don’t notice I sneak away. They don’t care—now everyone just walking to live, not caring where we go, who live, who die. All I think is Thailand. I walk the direction to Thailand, one day, two, maybe three, sometime even at night, always walking to where the sun set. But this jungle so dark, you can’t even see the sky; you just keep walking. One week maybe, I come to a stream. Thailand! To get to Thailand you have to cross a river; I know this from what Sombo say. So now I am almost at Thailand. All I have to do, cross this water. I walk a little more, up and down this stream, looking for shallow place to cross. In the wood ahead I see strange thing, hut made of stick and mud. On the dirt, trail of blood. Then bodies. Old man, mother, child. I know this old man. He the one who give Sombo the Coca-Cola. These bodies, these the people Sombo kill from the hideout village. And I understand two thing: these people, they not die right away; they crawl till they die.
