Liên woke at ten past four, as she always did in the dry season, without an alarm.
The room was still dark. Through the small window she could see the eastern horizon beginning to change — not light yet, just the solid black of midnight giving way to something more uncertain, a darkness with less weight in it. She lay still for a moment, listening to the canal outside, a steady low sound she had slept beside every night of her adult life. A single frog called from somewhere near the bank, a low two-note call, and then went quiet.
She rose and folded the sleeping mat against the wall.
The room she slept in was the smallest room in the house, with a window on the east wall and a window on the south wall. The only other thing on its walls was a hook for hanging the mosquito net when it was rolled up during the day. The mat was cotton-stuffed and slightly worn at the centre where she always slept. She had bought it at the town market eight years ago, on the same trip where she bought the plastic basins she now used for the afternoon soaking. She folded it in three and set it against the south wall where it always went.