Free Right of Thirst by Frank Huyler

to the ground, and they let the tent fall heavily off their shoulders onto the gravel. They kept their eyes on their feet, and worked silently as we stood and watched—there was none of the laughter that came across the field when Captain Rai was elsewhere. In a few minutes the tent was up.
    The mildewed green canvas released yellow shadows on the ground. There was no floor. It was decades old, and would have leaked badly in any kind of rain. A heavy snowfall, too—I could see it sagging under the burden, dripping and giving way. But for the moment the weather was light. Wind the tent could bear, staked tightly as it was to the ground. The door closed with buttons, the poles were dark brown wood.
    It was the first day of clarifying work, carrying the frozen bags of IV fluid, the boxes of needles and tubing, the donated samples of antibiotics and anesthetics, the scalpels and suture kits and white coils of gauze. Elise and I did it together—I declined Rai’s offer of villagers, feeling a distinct sense of superiority as I did so. I was surprised by how I threw myself into the task, bending and lifting, breathing hard. And my eagerness made me realize that I truly had come for a reason, that the simple freedom of experience was not what I sought. I needed something else, something clear and redeeming and larger thanmyself, whatever it might be, and in that moment I knew it.
    By the afternoon, the tent was stocked; there were even cots for imaginary patients, and IV stands, an examination table, and chairs. A lantern, and another kerosene heater. The wind rattled the sides. I thanked Elise for her help, looking at my empty ward.
    â€œIt is nice to do something,” she said. “I would like to start my research, but I can do nothing now.”
    I lit the second kerosene heater to make sure it worked, and sat beside it on an aluminum folding chair for a good while, listening to it hiss, warming my cold hands and knees. She sat beside me, and did the same. I was sore from all the bending and lifting, and breathless from the altitude.
    â€œAre you married, Dr. Anderson?” she asked.
    I turned to look at her.
    â€œPlease call me Charles,” I said. “I was married. My wife died a few months ago.”
    It was still something I was not accustomed to saying.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. “That is terrible.”
    â€œThank you.”
    She paused, but then her curiosity got the best of her.
    â€œWhy do you wear your wedding ring?”
    â€œBecause it’s comforting,” I said, after a moment. I had not been asked that question before.
    She nodded, as if my answer was a practical one.
    â€œDo you have children?”
    â€œI have a son. He’s only a few years younger than you.”
    â€œIs he a doctor also?”
    â€œHe’s an actor. At least, he’s trying to be an actor.”
    â€œYes,” she said. “It is difficult, I think.”
    â€œNot many can support themselves doing it.”
    â€œDo you give him money?”
    â€œI do help him, yes,” I said, surprised again by her bluntness.Her questions felt like muffled blows.
    â€œDo you think he will succeed?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “I hope that he will.”
    I wondered what he was doing at that moment, and realized that for him it was very late at night, and that he must be sleeping.
    At his college graduation, as I’d stood with Rachel in the crowd, and he crossed the stage to receive his diploma and his drama award, so young and far away, I could hardly bear to look at him. I did not expect it, but I’d been nearly overcome as we stood with the other parents in the audience, watching our children go, and it was a struggle not to give too much away when his drama teacher—an intense, bone-thin woman with severe gray hair—took me aside at the reception afterward and told me point-blank not to make it difficult for him because he