He sat, head halo’d in wispy smoke, and considered the stacks of brochures in front of him. His eyes panned side to side over the bright colors, pupils as glazed as the glossy photos on the brochures. He only had to choose a location and a hotel, but none stood out from the others.

Pastel walls and patterned bedspreads, with off white pillow cases, all surrounded by cheap and indistinct artwork and uniform furniture. What possible attraction was he supposed to feel towards any of that? Each hotel was just a different amalgation of the same parts, and each location was only a vague promise of formulaic tourist experiences, set with a different exotic background and wardrobe.

Idly, his fingers drummed at the underside of the table, and he took a deep drag off his cigarette, kicking the ashes off with a flick of his finger. The movement caught his own eye, and he looked at his fingers, and thought about her fingers in his. He saw her lithe joints, as the smooth skin traced the back of his hand and the glint of light reflecting off the stone in the ring.

And he wondered. He wondered if he was really ready to be married, to be an equal in matrimony. He wondered if he could handle it. He wondered if his dad was proud of him, or just merely placated at his choices. He wondered if, or when, he ought to consider his life successful. He wondered, more then anything, what choice would make his wife to-be happiest; Florida, Hawaii, or England. Or Paris. Or… He wondered.

He smashed the cigarette down in the ash tray and ran his hand through his hair. How much did it matter, this far along in the proceedings, whether he felt prepared or not.

We fled, my brother and I, during the night, and we were not alone. Dozens, hundreds of boats slid silently through the water, punctuated by the creaking of wet wood and rope and the occasional muted thuds of slight collision. Covered lanterns were our only pale illumination, and even those were scarcely used for the fear of who might see us from the shores.

Things had gotten far worse in the last 3 weeks, and the fear of simply disappearing in the night, taken by latex hands and empty eyes, was too much to handle. I was taking my brother out by the only way I knew how, in my fathers old boat, and the others who lived on the banks of the river were doing the same.

Even in the  hope that we might succeed, that we might escape, there was the highest level of fear. For all we knew, out silent floating neighbor was one of them, biding his time to spring his trap upon us. For all intents and purposes, every other boat on the water could be a vessel for government agents. There was no way to tell, although I guessed that they were stretched to thin to do anything  as subtle as that at the moment. The war was stretching them far too thin.

That was our only hope. That the pressures of constant attack and alliance against them was too much to handle, and that we would get beyond their reach. All transmission had been shut down, so there was no real way for us to know how far we had to go to get past the front-lines, but based on the last information, it was only 25 miles by the crows flight. With no sail or paddle, relying only on the current, this might take us 10 hours or longer, but 10 hours we didn’t have. In the light, there would be no need for stealth; we would either be saved or be killed.

Even in great fear, the night wears down on you. Eventually, I found myself nodding in the darkness, awoken periodically in a cold sweat of fear and dreams of being caught. But each time I awoke was less and less notable, and I began to dream not of capture, but that we might actually succeed. My brother, 8 years old, was curled at my feet, and each time I awoke, I looked at his pure and perfect face, hair tousled in the wind. He trusted me, and he lay there innocent and exposed. But his faith may well be correct, and we might yet make it.

Hushed voices ahead and to the right bank. Urgent whispers. I sat up in the dark and tried to hear the voices carrying over the water, fingers groping in the dark for the oar. Were we undone? Had they found us? Would the whispers turn to gunshots?

The air was thick with fear, and my brother started awake. His face was white and I could see his face clearly, dark as it was. His fingers grasped my foot, both of us straining for any clue of our fate. Delicately, I pressed the oar into the water and tried to push us as far as I could from either bank, but against the current the effort was useless. We were at the mercy of the water now.

The whispers spread behind us, as others began to realize that something was quite right. There was a single, wordless yell from the distance. It echoed like a gunshot over us. A baby began crying softly, as someone else tried to shush it.

We were through. They must have found us. We were all going to die, or worse, be captured and questioned. I gathered my brother into my arms, and we sat there silently waiting.

Another voice, and then against all expectations, a low chuckle, which grew to a laugh, and then a howl. They mocked us before slaughtering us! The devils.

General chaos was beginning to break out, but still in a bizarre muted silence. Fear was too much, but it was still too quiet to scream.

Then one voice, loud and exultant, in Burmese, “Citizens, Brothers from Burma, Refugees from Myanmar…”  There was a hush, and a long pause of silence even louder then his voice. “You’ve made it. You are in Thailand!”

There was one shocked intake of breath before the tears of joy. As one we wept, as Thai soldiers helped us make land, and wrapped us in warm blankets. As we made it ashore, flares were sent up, and we saw all of the tanks and barricades around us. We were safe! We were alive. I looked at my brother, and he smiled for the first time since Father had died.

We were together.