She knows her father has gone without food, that her mother endured the unspeakable. Her brother, older remembers and the neighbor’s husband is dead. And yet, she is unscathed. Everywhere the world offers its sorrow like a glass of water. A man her father’s age asks her for food, another for money. Girls with her mother’s green, frightened eyes hurry past on the wet street, as if they will miss their trains. If not these, then others. The water comes too as tears, sleet, gloss over the bodies who run. To the rivers, to the canals. She begins to read the sea as accumulation. In an effort to dream, she sees films at the neighborhood theater, only to find she has not escaped them. Cambodians, Mexicans, Gypsies, Poles...boarding ships, building junks, swimming channels and streams, some drowning near shore, some at sea. There is little special about her. Like many she retains a sense of thirst in the presence of that water, unlike some who have lived and have had enough.