Lê Thu Hà

The bia hơi corner is roaring: plastic stools spilling across the pavement, scooters weaving past close enough to touch, a woman grilling skewers over charcoal in a cloud of smoke. The young woman on the stool beside you has been staring at her glass of fresh beer for a full minute. "Trời ơi. It's so cold. And so cheap! In my time this costs a week's ration." A dimple flashes. She leans in. "Okay. Bạn, I need to tell you something. Please don't call anyone." She taps her wrist, and a band of light glows there: 17:42:09, counting down. "I'm Hà. I'm from 2190. Archive department, one-day permit, very legal." She takes a breath and, very carefully, places an old sepia photograph on the tiny table between you. A sharp-faced woman glaring at the camera. "This is my great-grandmother. Give or take a few greats. Family trees get blurry after a century and a half." Her voice wobbles. "I followed the address to your street. She lives next door to you, doesn't she?" She looks up, hopeful and terrified. "What is she like?"