We chased our pleasures here
Dug our treasures there
But can you still recall
The time we cried
Break on through to the other side
Break on through to the other side

- The Doors


Lyrics to Judy in Disguise by John Fred and His Playboy Band (1967)

Blackness. The sway of movement and the jostle of a rutted jungle road. He took a deep breath and some of the sack covering his head was sucked into his mouth. He pushed it out with his lips and shifted; his wrists were tied behind his back and chaffing against heavy rope.

The barrel of a gun jammed into his side. "Đừng di chuyển!"

"Fuck you," he spat, and the barrel pressed deeper, sending pain into his addled brain. They wouldn't shoot him, he knew that now: They were having too much fun with him to kill him off. There was a time, however, when he believed that they would, that at any moment he would feel cold steel against the back of his head and BAM, lights out. Don't resist. Do what they say. Dear God, cooperate and don't talk back.

Heh.

How long had it been? It felt like decades. Hell, he could barely remember a time he wasn't captive. He had a life somewhere...a family and a girl who loved him and all that other happy shit. Keyword had. Now all he had was pain, suffering, and hatred. The barrel pressed deeper still, and, clenching his teeth, he threw his elbow against it, knocking it aside. "Fuck you!"

The stock of a rifle crashed into his stomach, and hot pain exploded in him. He doubled over, tears springing to his eyes, and bit his bottom lip so hard against a cry that he drew blood. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

Not anymore.

The movement slowed, and the truck took a right turn. He was sitting in the back with three other POWs and several guards. He was the only one who had spoken since they were marched in and the journey began. The others were new: They'd been taken less than a week ago, and there was a softness in their faces that Lincoln never thought he'd see in a soldier. One was a Marine. Heh. Marines are the toughest of the tough, right? Well, he didn't look so tough: He looked like a scared little boy. Parris Island is one thing...this is another. When he was taken, Lincoln suspected he had that same doughy softness in his eyes, but the NVA beat it out of him during the week long march through the jungle. They hit him with bamboo sticks, they hit him with fists, they hit him with the butts of their rifles, they tied his hands to his neck and then to a tree while they ate and shit and slept. The bullet wound in his shoulder burned and ached, and for a while he had a fever. When they got to the camp, they put him in a bamboo cage and left him, coming back only to prod him with sticks while he slept, and to spit on him.

A Cong doctor finally removed the bullet with a pair of tweezers. The pain was so great that Lincoln screamed until his voice was hoarse; when it was over, they cauterized the wound with fire, and that hurt even more. Now he could feel the scar tissue scraping against the fabric of his shirt every time he moved. It only really hurt when you touched it, though, and the Cong loved touching it.

After the surgery, they let him rest for one day...then it was back to being dragged out of the cage and beaten every day, back to being tied to a chair and having bamboo shoots shoved under his fingernails while Charlie laughed, back to screaming until his throat bled. At least they fed him regularly now. Rice squirming with maggots and bits of rotten meat. Yum. The first time they shoved a bowlful of the stuff through the bars of his cage, he turned away, sickened. By the end of the week, he was president of the clean plate club. Sometimes, long after he ate, he could still feel them moving in his mouth.

The first time they questioned him, they tied him to a chair and wrapped a bandanna around his eyes. A Cong who spoke surprisingly good English loomed over him. "Tell us what you know."

Lincoln didn't reply for a moment. "I don't know anything. I'm just a foot soldier."

The Cong slapped him hard across the face. "Tell us what you know."

"I don't know anything!"

SLAP!

It took two more sessions before he finally realized something: They knew he was clueless...they were just doing it for fun. The fourth time, he stated his name, rank, and serial number. Slap. Name, rank, serial number. Slap. At some point, they took him out of his cage, tied his wrists, and marched him into the jungle. When they reached a freshly dug hole, his heart clutched, and he knew he was going to die.

They made him kneel in the hole and put a gun to the back of his head. He closed his eyes and called up a vision of his family. His parents, his sisters, his brother, Ronnie Anne. That's the image he wanted to carry with him into death.

I'm sorry, he told Ronnie Anne. I love you...please forget me.

Tears fell down his cheek and his body trembled.

Click-click.

His eyes opened, and the Cong laughed hysterically...then someone hit him in the back of the head with the butt of their rifle. He didn't remember much after that. His ring finger got broken somehow, and it didn't set right, so now it was crooked and deformed.

Currently, the truck turned left and stopped. The tang of wood smoke touched Lincoln's nose, and he inferred from that that they had reached a camp. The back tailgate clattered down with a slight vibration and his captors started barking orders that they knew the POWs didn't understand. Someone grabbed the back of Lincoln's shirt and pulled him to his feet, then marched him to the end of the bed. Suddenly, he was flung forward, and he was falling, his heart leaping into his throat. He landed face first in the dirt with an involuntary umph. The hood rode up, and he struggled to his knees, wincing when it was yanked off and sunlight stung his eyes.

Immediately, someone slapped him across the face and dragged him to a standing position. Another Vietnamese face stared hatefully back. If you've seen one, you've seen 'em all. Over the Cong's shoulder, Lincoln took in the camp: A collection of grass and bamboo huts dotting the barren earth along a wide, lazy river. Jungle pressed close on two sides, and across the water, the other bank was an unbroken expanse of trees. Wood fires burned in the center of the camp, and ugly women carried buckets of water up from the bank.

The Cong grabbed Lincoln by the back of his neck and led him through the settlement. People stopped at stared at him with open hatred; a woman in a green military uniform spat on him.

"Fuck you, bitch," he growled, and his guard punched him in the ribs.

"Không nói chuyện!"

"Fuck you too!"

The guard punched him again.

A line of bamboo cages stood along the muddy riverbank. A few were occupied by downtrodden prisoners. The guard opened one next to a man with white hair and shoved Lincoln in, closing the door behind him. Lincoln dragged himself to a sitting position and watched as the others were placed into cages. He pulled against the rope binding his wrists, but the pain was great, and he gave up.

The guard returned to Lincoln's cage and pressed his face to the bars. His evil smile revealed rotten teeth. "Chào mừng đến với địa ngục."

He laughed.

"Fuck you, you piece of shit."

The guard turned away and left, leaving Lincoln alone. Lincoln watched him with hatred until he was gone.

"You have a bad attitude," the white-haired man in the next cage over said. Lincoln threw him a hard, narrow-eyed glance. He wore a black outfit that reminded Lincoln of pajamas. He faced forward. One eye was black and his bottom lip was split.

"Fuck you, too."

The man chuckled. "You're letting them in, you know that? That's what they want. They want you to be hateful."

Lincoln started to reply, but he didn't have the energy for philosophical bullshit. He leaned against the back of the cage and threw his head back. He was tired. He was in pain. His body hurt, his heart hurt, and every day brought him closer to giving up. The only thing that kept him going was his family.

In the next cage, the white-haired man sighed. "How long have they had you?"

Lincoln closed his eyes. He really didn't feel like talking. "I dunno. What month is it?"

"January," the man said, "I think. Either that or late December."

"Since May," Lincoln said.

"Well, you've had it longer than me," the man admitted. "They got me in October. Shot me down and took me out of a lake. Crushed my shoulder and stuck me with bayonets."

Lincoln winced. Ouch.

The man turned. "What's your name?"

"Loud," Lincoln said, "Private Lincoln Loud."

"Army?"

"Yeah."

"Lieutenant McCain," the man said, "U.S. Navy, and as your superior officer, I order you to clean up that attitude."

Lincoln didn't mean to laugh, but he did: All of the stress and pain and fear and everything else came bubbling up, and he laughed so hard he cried. He looked at McCain, who watched him with hard eyes, and laughed even harder. "Sorry, Lieutenant," Lincoln said, "really, I –"

"Listen here, Loud, maybe you're a selfish little bastard who's given up, but I guarantee there's someone waiting for you at home who hasn't, and if you give up on yourself and give in to these sons of bitches, you're giving up on them."

McCain's words stuck Lincoln like a knife. His face darkened. "Fuck you, Lieutenant," he spat, injecting as much venom into the final word as he could. McCain nodded slowly to himself and turned away. Lincoln whipped his head around and faced forward. Fucking prick. He hadn't given up: His family was the only reason he was alive right now. If it weren't for them, he would have rushed one of the guards and let them shoot him. What the hell did he have to stick around for outside of them, anyway?

For a long time, Lincoln sourly watched the comings and goings of his captors, the corners of his lips turned down and his eyes like flecks of ice. His mind raced with a thousand thoughts, and all of them were dark. Hunger pangs rippled painfully through his stomach: It was empty, and he couldn't remember the last time he ate. Sometime before they left...a day ago? Two? He didn't know. Hell, he couldn't even say where he was. South Vietnam? North Vietnam? Laos? Cambodia?

At one point, the guard brought him a wooden bowl filled with rice, maggots, and sickly gray meat. Lincoln turned to show him that his hands were still bound.

"Ăn như con chó bạn đang có."

He shoved the bowl through the bars and walked away. "Fuck you too, slant!"

"Shut up, Loud," McCain said. "Be a man and take your lumps."

Lincoln shot McCain a dirty look...a dirty look that turned to a frown when he found himself fantasizing about wrapping his hands around his throat and squeezing. The suddenness and savage intensity with which it came shocked him...and scared him. He turned away, shifted until he was on his stomach, and shoved his face into the bowl: The maggots wiggled against his lips and on his tongue, but he choked them down regardless. When only a few grains of rice remained, his licked the bowl. Hot shame rushed over him, but he didn't stop until it was clean. He struggled back to a sitting position and leaned back against the cage.

He couldn't say when, but he lapsed into sleep, waking only when the door was wrenched open and two Cong pulled him out and threw him to the ground. For a moment he was disoriented, then his mind cleared, and he tried to get to his knees, but one of his captors jammed his knee into his back and pressed down while another untied his hands.

"Get the fuck off me!" Lincoln roared.

"Take it like a man, Loud," McCain said without much force. "Just take it."

His hands were free and he tried to move them, but the Cong on top of him wrenched his right arm up behind his back, and he cried out as pain snaked into his shoulder. The other slipped a rope under him, and together they tied it so that his right arm was bound flat again his side but his left was free. They stood and moved away, and Lincoln got to his knees, his breathing ragged and his heart racing.

They both held lengths of bamboo.

One raised his and brought it around, hitting Lincoln's right shoulder hard. Pain exploded, and with a cry, Lincoln lunged at him, grabbing with his free arm. He snagged his pants, but the other brought his stick down across Lincoln's back, knocking a moan from Lincoln's throat. They both laughed. Lincoln still held fast to his torturer's pants. Head bowed, panting, he pulled, and another strike landed against the back of his neck, and he dropped, his mind swimming away.

When it came back, they were dragging him to his feet. He was woozy and could barely stand. One of the Cong stood aside while the other tossed his stick down and held up his fists, his head bobbing and a sadistic smile on his face. "Chiến đấu với tôi, con chó."

Without warning, he came forward, and Lincoln reacted, bringing his fist around: The Cong jumped back, and Lincoln stumbled, nearly pitching forward. The Cong capitalized, and smashed his fist into the side of Lincoln's face. Lincoln leaned into the punch and rammed his shoulder into the Cong's stomach, pushing himself against him and trying to knock him down. The Cong shoved him back, and threw another punch, hitting him in the chin. He lost his balance and went down.

Motherfucker.

"I'll kill you," Lincoln panted as he got back to his feet. His eyes were narrowed and his teeth were bared. The Cong bobbed and weaved, his buddy laughing. Lincoln ducked his head and rushed forward, but the second Cong stuck out his foot and he tripped, hitting the ground face first, his teeth clinking.

"Stay down, Loud," McCain said. "That's an order."

"Fuck your orders," Lincoln said and started to get back up. He was on his knee when the first Cong hit him in the nose: It shattered and burst, hot blood gushing down the bottom of Lincoln's face. He fell back in the dirt.

"See what happens when you don't follow orders?" McCain asked.

Lincoln panted. This time, he obeyed. When they started beating him with their sticks, he simply rolled over and brought his knees to his chest. Eventually, it was over and they stuck him back in his cage. Lincoln was punch drunk. His nose ached. His teeth hurt, and when he prodded them with the tip of his tongue, he found a hole where one had been knocked out. He lay on his side and didn't move.

Next to him, McCain shifted. "The harder you push, Loud, the harder they're going to push, and you don't stand a chance against them. Keep your head down and don't fight back."

Lincoln nodded. Sure. Fine. Whatever.

"And don't give hate a place in your heart. One day, you're probably going to go home...and that hate will go with you."

Lincoln's eyes were getting heavy, and when he finally slipped away, McCain's words followed him, echoing down the long, dark corridors of unconsciousness.


"Guess who's number four on the charts," Julius said. Luna was sitting on the couch of their rented apartment, a cigarette between her fingers and an icepack on her head: She had too much to drink last night.

She groaned.

Julius, who was standing by the front door, came over and knelt in front of her. "You are," he said with a smile.

For the past seven weeks, they had been watching Come Back to Me climb the Billboard Top 100...from fifty to thirty-six to seventeen and finally to five, where it had been for two weeks. It was exciting as hell, don't get her wrong, but once she realized that this was her big hit, it hit her that she would have to play it here, there, and everywhere...and she didn't want to because every time she did she thought of Lincoln, and it made her want to cry. She was already booked to appear on American Bandstand next month, and she was happy about it (that's a dream come true, man!), but she had to play that sad fucking song!

She could shoot herself for writing it.

"That's great," she croaked.

"Aren't you happy?"

"I have a splitting headache," she said, and took a puff of her cigarette. "This is as happy as I'm going to get."

There was a party in the Hollywood Hills the night before. She didn't know who was hosting (someone she and Julius had met, she thought), but there were a lot of famous people there. Robert Redford, Terry Melcher (he was Doris Day's son and a record producer), Dennis Wilson from The Beach Boys, Steve McQueen, Anton LaVey, Jim Morrison. Jim Morrison was the only person she knew, and she spent most of the night drinking with him and looking out over the city through a big window. It was really pretty, the lights all twinkling and spread out. She didn't feel like she could really enjoy it, though. Not when Lincoln was missing...or dead. Probably dead.

And if he was dead, she would never enjoy it – any of it...not really.

She was ready to leave by midnight, but Julius was having so much fun hob-knobbing that they wound up staying until almost four in the morning, and by that point she was drunk and miserable and most everyone had left. Dennis Wilson was still there, and they did a couple lines together. That made her feel a little better, but the damage was done: She had too much time to think, drunk, and it was fucked up, you know? Lincoln was fucking dead or some fucking thing and here she was living it up with a bunch of fucking actors and shit. And her family...man, she needed to call them. They probably thought she didn't love them but she did. In fact...she kind of wanted to go home. Fuck music. Fuck Hollywood. She snorted another line and leaned back against the couch.

Suddenly it felt like the walls were closing in on her, and she couldn't breathe. She jumped up and bumped into the table, her knee catching the edge: She was numb to it.

On the balcony, she gripped the railing and leaned over, the cool, salty breeze plastering her lank hair to her sweaty forehead. She fought to catch her breath, and in her chest, her heart slammed painfully. A grassy hillside sloped down from the balcony, and for a moment the strange and inexplicable urge to jump seized her. The drop wasn't enough to kill her, and she didn't want to die, she wanted...man, she didn't know what she wanted. She just didn't fucking know.

A hand fell on her shoulder, and she jumped, her heart rocketed into her throat. "Hey," Julius said lowly, "what're you doing? You okay?"

Luna hugged herself. She was hot and sweating and she couldn't stay still, so she rocked and shook her head. "No, I just wanna go home."

"Alright, alright," he said, "we'll go."

She sat in the passenger seat and watched the Sunset Strip flash by, the neon signs of a thousand clubs winking at her like knowing eyes. She was in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin when she thought, This isn't what I meant...

Presently, her head throbbed and she pressed her hand to it. Julius frowned and rubbed her leg. "Why don't you go back to bed?"

"I might," she said. She picked a glass of water up off the coffee table and took a sip. It was slimy and piss warm, but she didn't care. She doubted she'd sleep, but in bed nothing mattered, you know? "I have to do something first, man, just...leave me alone."

A shadow of hurt crossed his face, and Luna was sorry, but then it was gone; he leaned back on his knees and held his hands up. "Do whatever."

While he went into the bedroom, she picked the phone up and dialed home. Her mother picked up on the fifth ring. "Hello?"

The sound of her voice, tinny and staticky with distance, brought a sunny smile to Luna's face – or as sunny a smile as she could find with a raging headache, loose bowels, and an aching nose. "Hey, Mom," she said, "it's me."

"Hey, honey," Mom said happily, "how's it going?"

"Alright," Luna said, and it felt like a lie, "busy. A lot of stuff going on."

"Oh, I imagine. I heard your song on the radio in the car yesterday. I didn't recognize your voice, but Leni did." Mom chuckled. "She knew it instantly and got excited."

Luna smiled. Man, she missed Leni. And everyone. "How is she?"

"She's doing well. She gets forgetful here and there, but overall she's good The doctors say she might –" here her voice hitched, "she might hang on longer than they thought."

Luna blinked away a rush of tears. "That's great," she said.

"Have you seen Luan recently?"

"No, I haven't been up that way in a couple months." Not that I saw her when I was,she thought, and felt so guilty she ached. "Have you heard from her?"

"She calls from time-to-time," Mom replied, "she's busy too. Lynn's working at a car dealership now."

"Is he?" Luna asked. She couldn't remember the last time she spoke to him. The last she knew, he married some girl and said he was staying. God, she was a piece of shit. "Do you have his number?"

"I'll have to look around for it," Mom said. "Can I have yours?"

"Yeah," Luna said, and gave it to her. "Has...uh...has there been anything about Lincoln?"

"No," Mom said sadly, "nothing new."

That was a bad thing and a good thing, Luna figured. Bad because they hadn't found him...and good because they hadn't found his body. "You know that song? That song's about him. They-They made me kinda change it so it was, like, about a guy, but I-I wrote it about him." Her hands were trembling and she felt very tired.

"I'm sure he would be very proud," Mom said.

They talked for a little while longer, and when they finally hung up, Luna felt even worse than she had before. For a moment she sat cross-legged on the couch, her arms wrapped around her chest, then she got up and went into the bedroom. Julius was napping, and she exercised a respectful amount of silence as she took her stuff out of the nightstand drawer. In the living room, she knelt at the coffee table, opened the baggie, and scraped three lines out...then added two more because she was really fucking down.

An hour later, she felt much, much better, except her heart – it slammed like a fucking drum.


Lincoln touched his nose and winced. It hurt. Probably broken.

It was night and the sounds of the jungle reached his ears. Fires crackled and somewhere, his guards talked and laughed – like this was summer camp and they were going to go skinny dipping or on a panty raid or something.

"You married, Loud?" McCain asked suddenly in the darkness, startling him.

"Yes," Lincoln said at length. His throat was dry. The last time he drank was that afternoon when a young girl in a brown NVA uniform brought the prisoners each a drink. She watched him with dark, clouded eyes as he reached through the bars, then moved onto McCain and did the same. He shouldn't have drank it all...he should have saved some.

"You miss her?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Use that."

"I have been," Lincoln said, "for months."

"Use it longer...as long as it takes. You don't let go, Loud, you hang on."

"For how long?" Lincoln asked, turning. "How long are they gonna keep us? Until the war's over? When's that going to be?" He tried to imagine being here, in this cage, for another year, or two years, or three years, and he shuddered. He tried to imagine not seeing and holding Ronnie Anne for twenty-four or thirty-six months, and he wanted to cry. And now, he did, the tears sliding wetly down his bruised, dirt-stained cheeks. "All I wanna do is go home," he said. He drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. "All I wanna do is be with my wife." The tears overwhelmed him, and he wept openly and unashamedly.

"Buck up, Loud," McCain said, "we all want to go home to our families. Antagonizing the Cong and making them beat you harder isn't going to get you there."

"Sitting in this fucking cage isn't gonna get me there, either," Lincoln sobbed. He sniffed and rested the side of his head against his knees. In the light of the moon, McCain was a vague shape.

The older man shifted. "What other options do you have? Trying to escape and getting shot?"

Well...he was fast. If he could get a head start, he'd stand a good chance of getting away. Getting a head start, though, wasn't easy. These fucking cages were tough, and the only way he'd be able to slip away was if he did it under the cover of darkness.

"Stop thinking about it," McCain said. "That's an order."

Lincoln opened his mouth to deny it, but stopped, because who cared? "It might work," he said. "If both of us can get out."

McCain sighed. "No, it won't. And even if we got away, do you know where we are? Because I sure as hell don't. VC could be everywhere. They'd catch us and kill us. And my leg...I don't think I can run. You need to shut that line of thought down, soldier. Go with the program. If they want to beat you, let them beat you, because if you fight back, they'll beat you even more, and you'll never see that girl of yours again."

After that, they lapsed into silence. Lincoln's mind raced, and the more he thought about it, the more he fed the idea his desperation, the better it sounded. He didn't know how he'd do it, but he was sure that there was a way. There had to be.

At dawn, he was roused from a fitful slumber by two guards who dragged him out of his cage and took him to a grass hut, where he was tied to a chair, his ankles to the legs and his wrists to the arms: His heart raced and his stomach clenched. He knew what was coming.

One of the guards loomed over him with a hateful grin on his face while the other stood watch, an AK-47 cradled in his arms. The first slipped his hand into his pocket and brought something out, holding it up for Lincoln to see and chuckling darkly. Bamboo shoots. Lincoln took a deep breath, preparing himself for the pain that was to come.

The door opened, and another solider entered. Lincoln looked up. It was the girl from the day before, the water jockey. She wore a rifle across her back, and her eyes darted nervously around the room. "Tư lệnh Fao muốn nhìn thấy một trong số các bạn về những gì đã xảy ra."

The guard looming over Lincoln turned. "Tại sao? Anh ấy có tức giận không?"

The girl nodded. "Vâng."

The first guard sighed and looked at the second. "Bạn đã làm nó, bạn giải quyết các hậu quả." The second nodded curtly and said something under his breath before brushing past the first and leaving.

"Bạn ở lại và bảo vệ," he said to the girl, and her eyes went wide. She slowly shook her head.

"Tôi không thể. Tôi không..."

The guard pointed to the spot his comrade had so recently occupied. "Tôi ra lệnh cho bạn!"

The girl took a deep breath, nodded, and went over, glancing at Lincoln and then quickly away. He got the impression she didn't want to see what was about to happen to him...good, let her fucking see. Standing still, she slipped her rifle off her shoulder and held it in her hands, her chin tilted up and her eyes gazing at the ceiling. The guard turned to him and smiled. "Bạn đã sẵn sàng chưa?"

Lincoln glared at him and worked up as much saliva as his dry mouth could muster...but McCain's words came back to him, and he swallowed it.

Still grinning, the guard took one of the shoots and pressed its flat edge under the nail of Lincoln's middle finger. Lincoln took a deep breath and closed his eyes: When it jammed deep under the nail, he clenched his teeth against a scream and shook with the intensity of the pain. He did what he always did when they did this to him: He called up a picture of Ronnie Anne's face and tried to lose himself in her big, brown, loving eyes.

Another jagged splinter was rammed under the nail of his thumb, and he shook harder, his teeth grinding. Spittle flew from his lips.

He thought of lying in bed with her, his hand on her face and hers on his chest; she was smiling, and the morning sun made her hair shimmer.

Another shoot was rammed under a nail, this time his pinky: He threw his head back and panted.

The guard laughed. "Như thế này đủ chưa?"

One of the shoots twisted, then was ripped out, tearing pieces of flesh and quick with it. Lincoln shook his head as tears began to involuntarily slide down his cheek. Another was ripped out, then another. The guard slapped him hard across the cheek, then hit the other cheek for good measure. Lincoln's eyes popped open, and the girl was pale, her hands trembling. "You don't like it when it's up close, huh?" he asked, and she looked at him, then away, tears standing in her eyes.

The guard hit him again, then yelled at the girl. "Bạn không có dạ dày cho điều này! Đi và làm công việc của người phụ nữ!"

She nodded curtly and hurried out of the hut. When she was gone, Lincoln hung his head and licked his chapped lips: He could taste blood. He closed his eyes and tried to think of Ronnie Anne again, but the guard grabbed him by the face and tilted his head back. "Chẳng bao lâu bạn sẽ đi và tôi sẽ bỏ lỡ làm điều này. Con lợn." He slapped Lincoln's face again, and stars burst across his vision.

Shortly, the other guard returned, and together they dragged Lincoln back to his cage; he was semi-conscious at that point and offered no resistance, allowing them to throw him in like a bag of garbage and not moving until long after they had left.

"Did you fight back?" McCain asked.

Lincoln opened his mouth to speak, but the effort was too great, so he simply moaned and shook his head.

At some point, he passed out, and when he woke again, it was to the pelting of rain drops against his face: Through the slats of his prison, the sky was dark gray, and thunder rolled across the heavens. He closed his eyes and tried to escape again, but the drops came faster, so he curled up on his side. "You alright, Loud?" McCain asked.

"Right as rain, sir," Lincoln croaked, and tittered, his chest and shoulders shaking. Luan would appreciate that one.

McCain didn't respond, and Lincoln began to drift again; maybe if he went back under he would dream of holding Ronnie Anne's hand. That would be nice...so nice the thought brought tears to his eyes. "Chow's here," McCain said. Lincoln rolled onto his other side and narrowed his eyes as a guard approached carrying a tray: Through the blur of his tears, and his hatred, he could make out only the vaguest details. Slight. Short. Human...or as human as the North Vietnamese could get...which wasn't very fucking human at all.

As they drew closer, he saw it was the girl, the one who couldn't stand to see what he people did up close. "Yum," Lincoln said slowly, "maggot surprise."

The girl started with McCain, passing a wooden bowl and a wooden cup through the bars. He nodded and thanked her...actually thanked her. Lincoln snickered. Next, she knelt in front of his cage and pushed a bowl and a cup through the slats. "Tôi xin lỗi vì những gì họ đã làm," she said, speaking lowly. There was a plaintive quality to her voice that made Lincoln look up: Her lips trembled and tears stood in her eyes. Part of him wanted to reach out and give her a reassuring pat...and another part wanted to reach out and break her fucking hand. Instead, he closed his eyes until he was sure she had moved on to the next cage.

The rain was falling faster now, and his uniform was starting to soak through. When the girl was gone, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, took the cup in his trembling hands, and lifted it to his lips. He tried not to drink it all at once, but he did. He pushed the container through the bars where it could more freely collect rainwater, then went for his bowl; he was surprised to find just rice – no maggots, no rotting meat. Using his fore and middle fingers as a primitive spoon, he ate every bite, his stomach crying out to be filled, then complaining when the food was gone.

Later, after the rain had stopped and he lay curled into a shivering ball, he thought of two things: Ronnie Anne...and escape.


Every day that Lincoln was missing, Ronnie Anne Loud died just a little more. On January 25, 1968, she left work fifteen minutes early and drove through a light snow toward the Loud house, her eyes leaking and her heart throbbing. She was fine at the beginning of the day – or as fine as she could be – but then, at some point, it occurred to her that in four short months she would celebrate her second wedding anniversary...probably alone, just as she had the first.

That realization threw her into a deep funk from which she couldn't escape, and several times she had to go to the bathroom and cry. During the dinner rush, as she served a teenaged couple who stared longingly into each other's eyes the way she and Lincoln had when they were kids, her mother's words came back to her...the words from her final letter:

Your future husband, whoever he is, may change, or he could die, or any number of things. Do not rely on him.

In that moment it occurred to her: She did rely on him...not for money or anything else...she relied on him the way another might rely on oxygen or clean drinking water. He was her life, her heart, her happiness...she relied on him so deeply that without him, she was like her mother; her mother was poor in wealth, she was poor in spirit.

Did she feel like this when Dad left? She didn't remember her being particularly broken up...then again, she didn't think her mother loved her father the way she loved Lincoln. Her love burned with the intensity of a thousand suns...cheesy, maybe, but it was true. She had loved him since she was eleven-years-old, and with each passing day over ten years, that love grew and grew and grew and grew. Maybe it wasn't normal...maybe she was obsessive or something, but that didn't change how she felt, and it didn't alleviate the constant, gnawing loss in her chest. It might be different if she had children to worry about the way her mother had her and Bobby, but she didn't...her body didn't accept his seed the last time they made love and she had nothing.

She thought of suicide again, of taking the Impala as high as it would go and slamming into something – the nightmare would be over and maybe she would be with Lincoln on the other side.

But maybe...just maybe...he was still alive somewhere: She didn't have much hope, but she had some, and she would wait...even if it killed her inside...even if she had to cry herself to sleep every night and cry herself awake every morning.

She reached the house five minutes later, just as full dark was falling, and turned into the driveway, parking behind Mr. Loud's Packard. She was suddenly very tired and wanted nothing more than to sleep until she had to be up again. She got out, shivered as a cold wind buffeted her, and slammed the door. Inside, the living room was warm and dimly lit. Mr. Loud sat in his chair facing the TV, where The Flying Nun was in full swing. Mrs. Loud sat on the sofa next to Leni, who was knitting and humming. Mr. and Mrs. Loud both looked up when she came in.

"Hi, Ronnie," Mr. Loud said and went back to watching TV.

"Hello, dear," Mrs. Loud said, "how was your day?"

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Fine," she said, her voice cracking. It was anything but fine.

Leni broke out into song, oblivious to the world around her:

"Lemonade pie, hey got your brand new car

Cantaloupe eyes come to me tonight..."

She stopped and looked at her mother. "What's the rest?"

"It's Judy in disguise with glasses, dear," Mrs. Loud said, "Ronnie, honey, there's a plate for you in the microwave if you want it."

"Thank you," Ronnie Anne said, "I-Maybe later."

She scurried up the stairs before anyone could talk to her again. She hated appearing rude, but she just couldn't do this right now. She needed to be alone; at any moment she could break down, and she didn't want them to see. In her room, she dropped her purse onto her dresser, kicked out of her shoes, and stretched out on the bed, her face buried in the pillow.

What if he never comes back? What if he stays missing forever? How long could she last? How long until she crumbled and really did wrap the Impala around a telephone pole? She didn't know...God, she didn't know anything anymore. Lincoln was probably dead and so was she.

When the tears came, she didn't try to fight them; she gave in and let them fall. Please be alive, Lincoln, she thought and hitched, I need you...