No sooner had the taxi lurched into the traffic than Rowen’s father leaned forward in the seat. “Oh, no, we don’t.” He put his hand on the driver’s shoulder and said something in Vietnamese. Before the driver had fully registered understanding, Rowen’s father produced a folded twenty-dollar bill from his breast pocket. He held it by the driver’s ear with more words in Vietnamese until the driver took it from him, nodding. Now the taxi slowed to a crawl, the furious stream of mopeds and bicycles parting behind them and flowing back together in front. Rowen Sr. sat back expansively, draping his arm along the seat back behind Rowen.
“For chrissakes, Dad, you flew gunships over this country.”