The Choice
Sanjana Sankar
Ahn
The letter arrives on a hot, sweltering Tuesday, three months into his deployment. Ahn recognizes his mother's handwriting immediately—the careful loops, the way she dots her i's with tiny circles instead of points. He tears it open behind the barracks where no one can see his hands shake. His mother knows not to write him.
May is gone.
Not dead. Just gone. The Viet Cong came to their village two weeks ago. They took the young people, his sister among them. Fifteen years old and dragged into the jungle to carry ammunition, to cook for fighters, to disappear into the same war he's supposed to be ending.
Ahn crumples the letter in his fist and forces himself to breathe. Around him, the camp buzzes with sounds of men laughing, playing cards, cleaning rifles. Someone is singing off-key. The normalcy of it makes him want to scream.
He enlisted to protect May. That's what the recruiters said: defend your country, save your family from the communist threat. But which country? The one that put a rifle in his hands, or the one where his mother still hangs laundry in the yard where May used to play?
That night, he watches his captain interrogate a suspected Viet Cong sympathizer, a man in his fifties with farmer's hands and gaps in his teeth. The captain breaks two of the man's fingers before he even asks a question.
“Just to establish authority,” he says.
Ahn stands guard at the door. He doesn't intervene. He tells himself this is different. This man might know something. Might have information that saves lives. He stares straight ahead, sounds muffled.
But when the man screams, it pierces through his bubble, and all Ahn hears is his sister's voice.
He throws up behind the building afterward. One of the other soldiers sees and claps him on the back. “You'll get used to it,” the man says. “Happened to all of us.”
Ahn doesn't want to get used to it. But he doesn't know how to stop.
Lia
Dust coats her tongue like ash. The air is heavy with smoke, and something sharp presses into her ribs, a broken beam, maybe, or a piece of the roof that the rain used to softly patter against in the night. Her ears ring. She squints against the sun filtering through the cracked walls of what was once her home, now reduced to a pile of rubble.
It’s gone.
Her home, completely flattened.
A boot scrapes nearby, a voice shouting. Orders barked in Vietnamese and broken English. She remembers the soldiers, the noise, the fire. They’re rounding up the last of the villagers. She tries to move, and her head throbs in protest, her muscles aching with every shift. But she stands, slowly, painfully.
In the silence between muffled explosions, she hears her father's voice: “If they come, say I’m dead. Say I’m buried in the back.”
The fake grave still sits in the backyard, a crooked mound of earth they shaped with their bare hands, the soil soft and damp between their palms, the dirt stuck in their fingernails. She still glances at it sometimes, half expecting him to rise from beneath the soil. But he’s not there. None of them are.
Her mother died two weeks ago—sickness, not war. But grief doesn’t make those distinctions. Her father and brother left months earlier to fight for the Viet Cong, faces full of fierceness and determination to bleed for their country. She hasn’t seen them since.
Now she’s alone. Completely, utterly, and agonizingly alone.
“Get up!” the soldier snaps, grabbing her arm roughly. His voice is flat with fatigue. To him, this is just another errand. He doesn’t look at her face.
To him, she is one more body to move, one more person to round up.
To him, she is nothing.
She doesn’t fight. There is no strength left for resistance. Silent tears fall down her face and her fingers shake with silent sobs.
Ahn
Ahn slouches, annoyed. This entire morning has been exhausting. The village is half burned, the air smells like sweat and ash, and his orders were clear–relocate the civilians, clear the area, move on. He’s not here to comfort anyone, just to get them out before the next sweep.
He doesn’t ask her name. Doesn’t need to. This sobbing girl is just another Viet Cong traitor.
As he leads her into the truck, his mind starts to wander—what are they doing with all these people?
She sits quietly in the back of the truck, hands clasped in her lap, staring at the dirt road unfurling behind them like a trail of ghosts. Her eyes are glazed over, hopelessness is evident.
Ahn’s stomach lurches. Her face. She can’t be older than fifteen. Maybe sixteen. Around May’s age perhaps.
He tells himself it’s just the heat. The hunger. The stench of burning wood and flesh lingering in his nose. He’s hallucinating. But he knows he’s not.
He glances at her again. Not long. Just enough to see the way her fingers twist into each other, trembling in her lap.
Ahn shifts in his seat. His rifle feels heavier. This girl. She looks like his sister. The same almond-shaped eyes, lilting downwards with her tears. His entire body is strung with surprise, but he straightens himself, forcing himself to forget her face. It’s not May. This is a traitor.
He thinks back to his orders: clear the area, root out the Viet Cong rebels, end the insurgency. But none of those words explain this—the look in her eyes, like she’s already halfway dead and just waiting for her body to catch up.
Maybe she is a Viet Cong supporter. Maybe her brother is out there, planting traps, shooting at men like him. Exactly. It can’t be May. May’s gone.
The truck jolts over a pothole. She flinches but doesn’t make a sound. But Ahn sees the blood trickle down her temple slowly.
Ahn looks away, jaw clenched. The others would mock him for even thinking this way. Too soft, they’d say. Too weak.
But in the quiet hum of the engine, guilt settles on his skin, oily and dark matching the war paint on his face.
He won’t say anything. He can’t. Every minute he feels less like a soldier and more like a boy pretending he still knows what’s right.
The next morning, Lia is in a damp cell. Cold stone walls sweat with condensation. A single bulb buzzes overhead, casting a yellow glow on Lia’s bruised face. Her wrists are bound loosely.
Ahn stands outside the iron bars, still in uniform, reading the orders again though he’s already memorized them:
Extract information regarding the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Any means necessary.
He looks at her, just a girl but already hollowed out by war. Her body holds stillness like a doe in the wild. When he meets her eyes, there is fear, suspicion, defeat. She’s not May.
He opens the door. She doesn’t move. “You know why you’re here,” he says.
She doesn’t answer.
“The trail. You’ve helped people travel it. Hide on it. We know your father and brother are with the Viet Cong. Just tell me what you know.”
Still, she says nothing. The silence hangs, suffocating them.
Ahn steps closer. He raises his voice. He slams the wall with his fist.
Then he tries something he’s never done before. He crouches down, his face inches from her face.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he hurries out in a rushed whisper. “Just tell me. I can protect you.”
A flicker of emotion crosses her face, but not the one he wants. She laughs. Sarcastically. Bitterly. Her laughs stop abruptly.
“Just get on with it, please,” she whispers, no trace of hope or life in her voice. A sound of resignation and defeat. Ahn tells himself, she’s not May.
And then he can’t do it. He can’t drag her screams out into this quiet room. Her hopelessness fills the room, growing larger than the two of them.
He leaves. A few hours later, the captain arrives.
Tall. Cruel. Mouth twisted into a sneer. Ahn stands at attention as he approaches the cell.
“She still looks untouched,” the captain growls. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying a new technique,” Ahn says. “She’s stubborn. Fear doesn’t work on all of them. We should starve her out.”
The captain narrows his eyes. “You think these people deserve patience?”
Ahn doesn’t answer. A slap cracks across his cheek.
“You’re soft. You haven’t dirtied your hands the way a real soldier does.”
Ahn’s jaw clenches. Shame and rage coil in his chest, like a python, squeezing and squeezing.
The captain leans in, voice low. “You want to be one of us? Then make her scream. Or you’ll find yourself rotting in a cell next to her.”
He turns and stalks away.
Inside the cell, Lia watches the entire exchange. Her expression is unreadable. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. The look in her eyes says it all: I don’t trust you. I never will.
Ahn doesn’t try to convince her otherwise. He silently leaves, his hand rubbing his face in shame and anger.
Lia
Lia’s thoughts echo in her mind, reverberating within the crevices of her skull. Her head pounds with thirst and her wrists burn from the friction of the coir rope. She should’ve just been killed in the rubble. It would’ve made life easier for her. At least she’d be near her father instead of rotting in this cell.
A noise comes from the corner of the cell. A small mouse squeaks. Lia looks at her fellow captive in this prison and glances at the door. With another squeak, the mouse runs towards the cell door, squeezing in the gap underneath and escaping into freedom. A sigh echoes within the cell. She wishes she were a mouse.
Hours pass after Ahn leaves the cell. The sunlight fades into a heavy, humid evening. He stands outside the door again, this time without the authority of his rifle, his uniform, or his orders. Just the weight of his conscience.
He enters quietly.
Lia is seated in the same spot, staring at the floor.
Ahn
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he says softly.
No response.
He takes a step closer. “I’m not like them.”
She looks up, her eyes piercing into his soul. “You wear the same boots. Carry the same gun.”
“You think I want to be here?” His voice wavers. “You think I wanted this?”
She looks at him now. Not with understanding, but recognition. The kind that says: I’ve heard every lie. You’re not different.
“My sister,” he says suddenly. The words escape before he can stop them. “The Viet Cong took her. From our village.”
Lia's eyes flicker. For the first time, she truly looks at him.
“She's fifteen,” Ahn continues. “Same age as you, maybe. I joined to protect her. To protect people like her.” He laughs bitterly. “Now I don't even know which side she's on.”
“She's on the side that's trying to survive,” Lia says quietly. Her first real words to him. “Same as all of us.”
Silence settles between them, but it's different now. Less hostile. More exhausted.
“I didn't join to kill children,” he mutters. “I thought... maybe I could protect people. My country. My family.”
“What country?” Lia asks. Her voice is sharp, but there's no malice in it. Just genuine curiosity.
The question hits him like a blow. He looks at her, really looks at her, and realizes he doesn't have an answer.
“The one they told me to fight for,” he says finally. “But I don't know if it's mine anymore. Maybe...” He stops, swallows hard. “Maybe it was never mine to begin with.”
Lia nods slowly. “My father said the same thing about the South. He said they were fighting for someone else's Vietnam. Not ours.”
“And you?” Ahn asks. “What do you believe?”
“I believe everyone with a gun thinks they're right,” she says. “And everyone without one just wants to go home.”
Another long silence. A crow calls in the trees outside the window.
He looks up, suddenly exhausted. “But this isn’t war. This is execution.”
Mind racing, heart pounding, he says those five treasonous words. “I can get you out.”
Lia’s eyes narrow. “Why?” she asks.
“Because I’m done pretending like I don’t care,” Ahn says. “Because you shouldn’t have to die for something your brother did or for something you know or for something you don’t know. Because I still want to believe I’m not a monster.”
“You’d betray your country?” she asks finally.
Ahn swallows hard. “Maybe it was never mine to begin with.”
Another pause.
“I’ll die either way,” Lia whispers. “Here or on the road.”
“I won’t let that happen,” he says. “I can get us past the guards. I have a plan. You’ll be an errand boy; no one will question me if we walk out together.”
She looks at him for a long time. Searching.
Finally, she says, “Please don’t give me hope.”
Ahn nods. “This isn’t hope. This is a chance.”
That night, the base is quiet. Most of the soldiers are asleep or drunk. Ahn slips through the barracks in plain clothes, a canvas satchel slung over one shoulder. He wears the look of a courier. Harmless and forgettable.
He opens Lia’s cell. She flinches. But she doesn’t scream. Her bindings come undone with a quick flash of Ahn’s knife.
He tosses her a bundle of clothing, boy’s trousers, a loose shirt, a cap to hide her hair.
“Put these on,” he whispers.
She doesn’t move. Her lips part slightly. She is skeptical now. “Why are you helping me?”
“Because if you stay, they’ll kill you. Or worse.”
Still, she doesn’t move.
“I’m not asking you to trust me,” he says. “Just decide if you want to die here or take your chances out there.”
A long moment. Then, finally, she stands and changes.
They slip past the guard posts under cover of shadow. The guard on the gate barely looks up. Just another peasant boy helping a soldier run messages. But he notices the flash of a knife in Ahn’s bag. He stands up.
“HEY! What’s that?” the guard’s face is twisted in a sneer, waiting to catch Ahn and receive a promotion for catching a traitor. Potentially two.
Ahn raises his hands. “Lieutenant, it is not your business to question a courier of General Duong. If he finds you’ve interrupted my mission, he will have you punished.” As Ahn speaks, he squints at the guard, indicating his mission is top secret. Not to be divulged to his errand boy.
The guard’s eyes widen. “Yes Cadet, apologies. Please, go ahead,” he scrambles in fear of General Duong’s fury.
The guard goes back to his post, silently looking back into the base. They slip out in the dark, the fence trailing their heels.
Beyond the wire fence, the world opens into vast, silent roads. The jungle hums in the distance. Night air swirls around them, heavy with moisture and the scent of ash.
Lia says nothing as they walk. Ahn doesn’t ask. He knows the silence between them is a fragile bridge, one misstep and she’ll never follow him again.
After an hour, she finally speaks.
“Where are we going?”
“South,” Ahn says. “There's a village near the coast. My mother has family there. They'll hide you.”
“And you?”
He doesn't answer right away. The truth is, he doesn't know. He can't go back. The moment the captain discovers the empty cell, Ahn becomes a deserter. A traitor. Everything he swore he'd never be.
But maybe that's not the worst thing.
“I'll figure it out,” he says.
Lia looks at him in the moonlight. For the first time, something other than fear or suspicion crosses her face. Not trust, exactly. But acknowledgment.
“Your sister,” she says quietly. “If she's still out there... I hope you find her.”
Ahn nods, throat tight. “I hope you find your father and brother.”
They walk into the dark, two strangers stitched together by war, betrayal, and a sliver of impossible hope. Behind them, the base fades into shadow. Ahead, the jungle swallows the road.
They don't know what waits for them. But for the first time in months, neither of them is walking alone.