Free Sightseeing by Rattawut Lapcharoensap

teeth—taps me on the shoulder. He smells strongly of whiskey and nicotine and cologne. A dark map of sweat soaks his shirtfront.
    He asks me if I am who I am. I nod. He asks me to come with him. Wichu looks panicked. He asks the officer if there’s a problem, but the officer just adjusts his toothpick, moves it to the other side of his mouth, and says:
    No problem, son. Nothing to worry about. Your friend’s in good hands.
    I do not look at Wichu as the officer talks. When I get up to follow the officer, Wichu taps me on the forearm. He smiles and asks me if I’ll be okay. I pause for a moment, standing, peering down into my friend’s face, not quite understanding his question.
    I realize then that Wichu knows. Of course he knows. He was here, at this temple, outside of the pavilion with his mother, when Khamron got drafted years ago. He was here when the wealthier boys got taken out of the line. He was here when those same boys came back an hour later, took their places at the end of the lottery line, and—when their turns came—drew black card after black card after black card. Wichu had told me all about it the night of his brother’s draft. Although I had only half listened to him at the time, the memory of his voice comes back to me now in all its anger.
    Hey, he says again, still smiling. You gonna be okay?
    I understand then that he’s not really asking about my well-being. He’s asking for penitence. He’s asking for an explanation. He’s asking me why I didn’t tell him beforehand. The officer clears his throat impatiently beside me. I muster a smile, though I feel nauseated. I tell Wichu to save me my place in line.
    I follow the officer out of the pavilion, across the temple grounds toward the monks’ quarters. I walk head down, try not to look at the relatives when I walk past, though I feel all their eyes on my back. The officer offers me a cigarette. Though I desperately want one I tell him that I do not smoke. When we arrive at the monks’ quarters, there’s a small crowd of boys sitting there, smiling and laughing and talking exuberantly. I take my place among them. Years later I will wonder if I could’ve said something to the officer, told him Wichu’s name. But that draft day morning I just sit down on the teakwood floor, filled with relief even as I feel dizzy with dread, thinking of Wichu’s smiling face, of him asking me, his voice a frightening monotone, if I was going to be okay.
    The lottery begins. All the boys in the monks’ quarters fall silent. We listen to a booming voice in the pavilion announce each boy’s name one by one over the speakers, followed by the color of the ticket drawn.
Sorachai Srijamnong: Red. Kawin Buasap: Red. Surin Na Nakhon: Black. Worawut Chaiyaprasoet: Red.
The crowd is silent with every red, uproarious with each black. I listen for Wichu’s name. I look at theother boys; I wonder if they, too, are listening for their friends’ names out in the pavilion.
    The officer who escorted me earlier appears. He tells us to go back and seat ourselves at the end of the lottery line. Some of the boys get nervous. They ask him why. This isn’t what we’d agreed, says one of the boys. Why don’t you send us home already. But the officer tells us not to worry. You pansies, he says, grinning. Relax. Nothing’s gonna happen to daddy’s little boys.
    So we return to the pavilion, walk back single file across the temple ground. When we take our seats at the end of the lottery line, the other boys turn around to look. Word has already spread about us, about the boys who’d been taken out of the line before the end of the lunch hour. I hear relatives on the sidelines hissing and murmuring among themselves.
    Fucking corruption, somebody says.
    Cowards, says another.
    Just another day in the Kingdom of Thailand.
    I see the back of Wichu’s head some twenty meters ahead, the only