The Reckoning by Jeff Long Page A

leaving her—and presumably their driver—more sightless than before.
    The boy hunched in the darkness, like a reptile, his chest to the steering wheel, his forehead pressed to the glass. He was the youngest of the brothers, maybe nineteen or twenty, with wrists little thicker than the plastic steering wheel. Born and raised in refugee camps, they had come up through misery she could only imagine. He was wearing a blue-checkered kroma, and his arms and neck were cross-hatched with tattoos. He kept humming Smashing Pumpkins tunes learned from the RE-1 soldiers.
    She wished Duncan would tell some of his jokes and stories, but he was mostly silent beside the stone lump of their guide. The boys weren’t having fun. It was a road trip, not a funeral. She tried to prime the pump. She handed out little Jolly Rancher cinnamon candies from her bag, offering one to the driver.
    â€œHis name is Vin,” said Duncan.
    â€œVin,” she said. The boy smiled.
    â€œHeng Putheathvin,” Duncan amplified. “Among Khmers, the surname goes first, though it varies from child to child depending on the parents’ whim. It can get confusing. They might use the mother’s surname for one child, and the father’s for another. It’s like a gift they decide upon at birth. Sometimes the father will give his surname to a favorite child. Sometimes he gives it to a bad luck child just in order to protect him. Or her.”
    â€œA bad luck child?”
    â€œIt’s a curious custom, a kind of fetal scapegoat. While the baby is still in the womb, he or she bears responsibility for any bad luck that lands on the family. Say a mother goes into labor and sends her son for the midwife, and along the way a dog bites the boy. The infant is held responsible. From then on, you’re marked. Everyone around knows you brought bad luck from the womb. But the father can help deflect it by giving you his family name.”
    â€œThat’s so unfair,” said Molly. “To blame an unborn child.”
    â€œIt’s that destiny thing,” Duncan said. He spoke to Vin in Khmer. The boy responded shyly. Duncan laughed. “I asked him, and Heng is their father’s name. He said he and his brothers are all bad luck children.”
    â€œAsk him about his tattoos.”
    Duncan and Vin went back and forth. Vin seemed quite proud.
    â€œThey’re called sak, ” said Duncan. “It’s warrior magic. The tattoos protect him from knives and bullets. He has them on his arms, legs, and chest, even a little one in the part of his hair. He got them because his brothers have them. His oldest brother has the most elaborate ones. That’s because he was actually a soldier with the government. His brother has killed men. Rebels. Vin wants to get a tiger done on his legs, the tail down one leg, the head down the other. That way he’ll be safe from the land mines.”
    â€œJesus, man.” It was Luke, staring at Duncan in dismay. “You talk like a believer.”
    â€œWe’re not in Kansas anymore,” Duncan said to him.
    â€œAnd what’s this?” Molly asked, pointing at the most unusual marking. She’d seen it earlier. Duncan shined his light on Vin’s neck. At the upper tip of a series of welts lay a reddish image of George Washington.
    â€œThat,” said Duncan, “is an American quarter. In reverse.”
    â€œHe had a quarter tattooed on his neck?”
    â€œNot tattooed. It’s folk medicine. Koh khchal, ‘coining,’ in English. It’s not so different from medical philosophy in medieval Europe, the idea of ridding yourself of bad humors. A healer, or it can be a parent or a friend, dips a coin in kerosene to get a good grip, then they rub like hell, usually on your back or chest or arms.”
    Duncan asked Vin a question. “He has a headache. One of his brothers gave him a good, hard session. The coin can get pretty hot. His brother