CHAPTER FIFTEENVATHANA BENT TO THE amputee, placed the back of her fingers on his temple. His fever had spiked again. The young man moaned quietly but did not speak. His eyes did not focus on her nor was he conscious of her hand. “Your suffering is my suffering,” Vathana whispered. “Let your pain be my pain. Let me bear it for you. Let my eyes weep your tears.”
She looked up to see Doctor Sam Ol watching her. “Has his fever returned?”
“Yes,” Vathana said. “It’s very high. My hand burns.”
Sam Ol sighed. There was a critical shortage of medicine. To give the soldier anything would be to deny it to someone with a chance.
“Angel,” the FANK soldier called out in delirium. He’d been wounded ten days earlier in a skirmish along the Mekong four kilometers to the south. At first he’d been high
