The River Keeps Count

Thirty years of dawn crossings. The rope hangs from Bà Hoa's boat and each knot in it stands for someone she took to the other side who did not return.

A young man asks for the crossing with a suitcase and no return ticket, and for the first time she hesitates. She has never refused anyone. She is not sure she is allowed to. The river, she says, keeps its own count, and hers is only a copy.