Chapter 33: The Ones Who Came Looking
In the days that followed, Khai Minh slowly grew used to
life under the bridge.
In the mornings, everyone scattered across the city. Some
collected scrap, some shined shoes, some sat at the busiest intersections. At
night they drifted back with a few stale loaves, bags of leftover food, or
nothing but a half-drunk bottle of water.
He never learned each person’s past, or what had driven
them here. And to them, he was the same. No one cared who he had once been, or
what he had once owned.
Whether the shirt on your back was rags or something expensive,
a few nights on the damp ground gave it the same smell. Rich once or poor
forever. When you were hungry enough to beg, hungry enough to split half a loaf
of bread, there was no difference left at all.
The old man who had saved him was known to everyone as Old
Tu.
He told nothing about himself and asked nothing about Khai
Minh. Every morning, before leaving the bridge, he said only:
“Keep that watch hidden. Don’t let them see it.”
Khai Minh would nod. He was blind, but his ears were
sharp, and they had steered him clear of more danger than most people would
believe.
One night, when everyone was asleep, Khai Minh heard
footsteps, very soft, moving along the cardboard sheets on the ground. Whoever
it was lifted their feet high to avoid the bottles, but every pause came with a
small, slow sound.
He tilted his head, listening.
The footsteps stopped beside the spot where the
scrap-collector woman lay.
Right after came the faint chime of coins shifting inside
a small bag.
“Someone’s taking your bag.”
Khai Minh said it out loud.
The footsteps froze.
The woman shot upright.
“Who’s there? Who’s touching my things?”
The thief flung the bag down and ran. A couple of the men
nearby gave chase, but he had already vanished past the foot of the bridge.
The woman hugged the bag to her chest, still shaking.
“Heaven and Buddha be thanked. But how did you know?”
“I heard it.”
From that night on, people started paying attention to
what Khai Minh said.
One day, he heard a vehicle stop outside the bridge and
sit there a long time. The engine never cut off. Doors opened and shut, opened
and shut, yet no one came in to ask directions or look for anyone.
Khai Minh told Mo and the other children to move deeper
inside at once.
“What’s wrong?”
Mo asked.
“Stay away from the road.”
“But I want to see the car.”
“No.”
Something in his voice was hard enough that she didn’t
dare argue.
A while later, two men came down. They circled the camp,
asking whether anyone wanted to come work at a packing workshop. Free room and
board, they promised, and money to send home to your family at the end of the
month.
A stir ran through the people under the bridge.
A middle-aged man started forward. Khai Minh stopped him.
“Don’t go.”
The man bristled.
“What would you know about it?”
“They say it’s workshop work, but there are no tools in
that vehicle. No goods either. And the rear door is locked from the outside.”
The two strangers went dead quiet.
One of them turned to stare at Khai Minh.
“The hell is that blind bastard babbling about?”
Khai Minh didn’t answer. When the people under the bridge
began to back away, the two men cursed a few times, climbed into the vehicle,
and drove off.
No one ever found out whether they were truly hiring, or
after something else. But from that day on, whenever a strange vehicle
appeared, waking Khai Minh came first.
People began saving him a dry spot when it rained. They
set aside his share of food when he came back late, and guided him past the
stretches of road riddled with potholes.
In return, Khai Minh kept watch every night with his ears.
He could pick out the sound of a stranger going through
someone’s belongings, of metal hidden in a coat pocket. He could tell the
difference between footsteps merely passing by and footsteps trailing someone
on purpose.
Mo usually appeared in the late afternoon. Some days she
brought him a cold steamed bun. Some days, a few bruised tangerines. Then one
day, she had barely sat down before bursting out:
“Blind Brother, I get to see a doctor tomorrow.”
“Who’s taking you?”
“Some charity aunties and uncles.”
“Where did you meet them?”
“At the intersection. They said poor people get examined
for free, and they hand out medicine and food too.”
Khai Minh frowned.
“Which organization?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they say which hospital they’re taking you to?”
Mo shook her head, then remembered he couldn’t see.
“No. They just said to be at the top of the road tomorrow
morning, and a bus will come.”
“Who else is going with you?”
“Lots of people. They asked Old Tu too, but he doesn’t
want to go.”
Khai Minh turned his face toward her.
“You’re not going either.”
“Why not?”
“There’s no such thing as a medical checkup where they
won’t name the hospital, the doctors, or the place they’re taking you.”
“But they gave me a cake.”
“Giving you food doesn’t make them good people.”
Mo went quiet. After a while, she mumbled:
“My tummy hurts a lot. I want a doctor to look at it.”
That small voice stopped Khai Minh cold.
He knew that for children like Mo, laying eyes on a doctor
even once could be an unthinkable luxury. One meal and the word free were all
it took to make them climb onto any bus in the world.
“If you need a doctor, we’ll find a place with a real
address.”
He spoke more slowly now.
“Never get into a stranger’s vehicle. Not for cakes, not
for money. Never.”
“Can you come with me?”
“No.”
The answer came out too fast. He could not show his face
to any organization, any clinic, anywhere. The bulletins hunting Lam Khai Minh
still ran on the radio. It would take only one person recognizing one detail,
and everything would end.
Mo didn’t bring it up again.
The next morning, a bus stopped near the bridge.
Khai Minh recognized the engine. It was the same type of
vehicle from a few days before, but this time there were more people. They
handed out bags of food, taking down names, ages, and illnesses.
He drew back at once, deep behind the bridge pillar.
He pulled off his outer shirt and draped it over his head,
tugging the cloth down until it covered most of his face. Old Tu planted
himself in front of him and pretended to sleep.
Mo came running over.
“They’re calling everyone onto the bus.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I said I’m not going.”
“Good. Stay right here.”
A man walked in deeper and called out.
“Anyone in here not registered yet?”
Khai Minh held his breath.
The shoes stopped only a few paces away. In that instant
he heard a sheet of paper turn, and he could picture the eyes sweeping across
the shadows.
“Who’s that lying over there?”
Old Tu answered:
“Some blind drifter. He’s got scabies, the catching kind.
Nobody can go near him.”
The man stood there a few seconds longer, then turned
away.
Only when the sound of the bus had faded completely did
Khai Minh dare to breathe again.
What do you think-are those “charity workers” really there to help, or are they secretly searching for Khai Minh? Let me know what you think in the comments!
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