"I'm going," I said, "by bus if necessary."

"No bus!" they informed me happily.

I got on my bike. Their faces fell. Fung slapped his forehead and muttered that he'd be an old man by the time we got back to Saigon. Chau closed his eyes and blew smoke out of flared nostrils. They talked briefly, came to an agreement between themselves, turned to me and said, "no".

I rode away.

It took them an hour to catch up. I saw them a mile back along the flat plain, Fung's shirttails flapping in the breeze, both of them pumping hard. I'd had a lovely ride, my body relaxing into the steady rhythm of the rotating pedals, savoring the freedom of the road. They arrived, puffing and furious and thin-lipped, accusing me of riding fast to keep them behind. They were right. They forced me off the highway at the first roadside eatery and ordered plate after plate of food and drink in retaliation. I had my first good meal in days and Ziplocked the leftovers against future guava nights.