Chapter 1 — The Alley Is No Longer On The Map

The bicycle chain slipped out of the sprocket just as Mrs. Nam Xoi's clock pointed to six twenty, and Trinh Kha Vy stood rooted to the middle of the alley, one hand holding the handlebars, the other still stained with black grease, muttering words that if Mr. An heard, he would definitely be forced to write a review.

"Hold still. The more you twist, the more it goes out of alignment." Dang Duy Khanh walked out of the shop, holding a pair of sharp-beaked pliers, and his feet were still wearing slippers that had not yet been changed. His hair was sticky with sweat even though it was not yet sunny, and on the back of his shirt was an elliptical oil stain that Mrs. Vui, his mother, had complained about countless times that no matter how she washed it, it wouldn't come out clean.

"Twenty minutes left until class." Vy kicked the kickstand lightly, the bike tilted to one side as if she was angry. "If you're late in fixing it, I'll be late for Ms. Hanh's History class."

"Then stay still, don't nag." Khanh sat down, his knees bent close to the cracked ground of the alley, his fingers slipping between the chain and gears with the expertise of someone who had done this a hundred times. He didn't need to look to know where it was stuck, where he had to pry it up, where just a flick of his wrist would make the chain automatically engage again. His father's car repair shop was located right at the beginning of the alley, and the faded hand-painted wooden sign simply read "Car Repair — Hai Moc", and from the age of eight, Khanh knew how to change a tube, and when he was ten he could patch a tire without anyone telling him.

The alley was now waking up in its own way. The high-pitched shout of "Hot bread here!" interrupted the sound of the town's loudspeaker broadcasting the morning news, which sounded muffled and crackly. The smell of lubricant oil mixed with the smell of gac sticky rice from Mrs. Nam's stall in the corner of the alley, faintly followed by the smell of laundry soap from someone's laundry basin that had just finished rinsing, still wet, hanging on the wire strung across two corrugated iron roofs. Gieng Chung Alley was not wide - two motorbikes avoiding each other had to tilt their mirrors - but it was long and winding like a piece of intestine, flowing from the main road deep into the small yard where the laterite well was located in the middle, the mouth of the well was lined with a ring of cement that had been chipped in a few places, dating back to when Uncle Hai Moc's father was still alive.

Inside the shop, Uncle Hai Moc was huddled next to a workbench full of wrenches and spanners. He didn't raise his head but still clearly heard the conversation outside the door. "I told you to replace that chain a month ago. I keep patching it up. One day it breaks in the middle of the road and it's miserable." His voice echoed out, hoarse from smoking since he was young, but he could not hide his satisfaction when watching his son work neatly and decisively, exactly like his skills when he was thirty years old.

"I changed it, Dad. It's because the new chain keeps getting kicked by Vy so it slips." Khanh argued back, not looking back, just worrying about adjusting the locating screw.

"When did I ride recklessly?" Vy glared, but the corner of her lips curled up into a smile. She liked this atmosphere - the dramatic sound of hammers, the smell of motor oil, the sound of Uncle Hai Moc idly grumbling - it made her feel like she had a place to return to, even though her real house was only less than five houses away.

"Didn't you sleep last night?" Vy asked, her eyes glanced down at the dark circles under Khanh's eyes. "Face like a plucked chicken."

"Help Dad fix the Cub for Mr. Tu at the market. He urgently needs to deliver goods this morning." Khanh picked up the wheel, turned it around, and the chain ran smoothly and no longer rattled. "It's done. And why did my grandparents try to leave this car to you, but I can't fix it forever."

"My mother's car used to be mine, if you don't like it then walk." Vy took the car back and rubbed her palms together even though they had nothing on them, it was just a habit every time she stood next to Khanh, as if that action helped her maintain her composure. She was the only one in the group without a father — he died when she was in sixth grade, falling from scaffolding at a construction site nine kilometers from home, leaving behind a debt that her mother, Trinh Thi Nhien, had to rent laundry to the neighbors to pay off in installments. The old bicycle was the only thing left intact from the old house before they moved into this alley.

From inside the shop there was the sound of someone walking and chewing dumplings, their mouth bulging like a squirrel storing nuts.

"You two are still standing there talking. You'll be late for school." Nguyen Dac Phu - a fat boy in the neighborhood called Mo because his name sounds fat - appeared with a school bag slung on one shoulder, the other hand still holding a bag of steaming dumplings. "I saw Mr. An standing guard at the gate early. If anyone is late, he will take note."

"You took so long to eat breakfast and yet you still want to bribe people." Khanh stood up, wiped his hands on his pants, his jeans were worn out from kneeling all day repairing cars. He glanced at his watch - a gift from Uncle Hai Moc when he was in tenth grade, the glass had a long scratch - then turned to Vy. "Go. I'll drive, leave your car here and I'll fix the rear brake. I'll pick it up this afternoon."

"It's okay, I can go by myself." Vy said, but pulled the car back, holding the shop door carefully as if she were leaving a precious object. That's how they've been doing it since middle school: Vy never said "thank you" directly, she just let things flow naturally, and Khanh never asked for any thanks. He just had to watch her ride her bike through the corner of the alley without hearing the squeaking sound of the chain and he was happy enough for the whole morning.

The three of them walked out of the alley, passing by the communal well yard where two old women were sitting and washing rice. Water from the bucket poured into the waves, spilling onto the wet cement floor, creating a shiny black area. This well was not just for drawing water - it was where a small market was held every morning, where children bathe in the rain, and where adults sit and gossip about the village on power outage nights. Khanh remembers his father once saying in a rare serious voice: "If you still live in this alley, remember to keep the well clean. One day the whole neighborhood will only rely on it."

At that time, Khanh was twelve years old. He did not understand the profound meaning of that statement. He simply thought that his father was telling him not to throw trash into the well.

Arriving at the main road, the three of them separated, each going their own way through the crowded rush hour traffic. Dong An High School is located about a kilometer away from the alley, a row of three-storey houses whose light yellow paint has peeled off piece by piece, the school gate is always crowded with bicycles packed together like sardines in a can. Vy arrived just as the bell rang to announce the entrance to class. She rushed straight into the last row, panting, books spilling on the table.

"Almost." The girl sitting next to her - someone Vy only knew slightly - glanced over and smirked. "Every day, I'm just in time. It's like going to a hurdles race."

Vy didn't answer, just used her hand to smooth her messy hair, her eyes were still glued to the window frame where Khanh was driving the bike through the schoolyard next to the boys' class, her gait was slightly limp because one of the sandals had a broken strap yesterday and he hadn't had time to change it.

The first class went by slowly as usual. At recess, the second floor hallway was noisy with laughter, the sound of slippers scraping on tile floors, and the smell of chalkboard mixed in the hot September air. Vy leaned her back against the railing, looking down at the schoolyard where Khanh and Mo were huddled together, discussing something in front of a large notice board posted at the gate of the supervisor's room.

"Hey, Vy!" Fat shouted, his hands waving wildly. "Come down and see, this is really cool."

She ran down, her heart beating a little fast because she had just gone down two flights of stairs in one go. A crowd of students are gathered around the notice board, jostling to read the bold letters with ink still smelling of new paper: "Announcement of admission for Full Scholarship for Urban Planning & Real Estate Program - University in Sydney, Australia. For 12th grade students with excellent achievements. Application deadline: 30 days from today."

"A scholarship to go to Australia too?" Someone was whispering in the background. "You must have studied incredibly well to pass."

"Full, not half." Fat pointed to the bold text, his voice full of excitement as if he was about to leave. "Airfare, tuition, accommodation, calculated is probably equal to a decade of Mr. Khanh's car repair wages combined."

"You say that, but you're not that good, don't worry." Khanh lightly kicked Mo's leg, but his eyes still did not leave Vy's face. He knows better than anyone the way this girl often stands still in front of big doors - not because she's afraid, but because she always calculates in advance whether she has the strength to step through or not, and if she does, what will be left behind.

Vy read the words "application deadline: 30 days" again, her fingers unconsciously tracing the ink on the paper as if she were exploring a path she had never traveled before. Sydney. She only knew that name from a few pages of a geography book, a city seven thousand kilometers away from Gieng Chung alley, so far away that it sounded like someone else's story, not something that could happen to a girl who still owed money to buy textbooks at the beginning of the year.

Khanh stood still for a moment, eyes glued to the paper, then turned to Vy with a smile that he was confident was normal, but something in the corner of his mouth was a bit forced.

"Read the conditions carefully. I see a part where it says priority is given to students from difficult circumstances, with an average score of over eight points in natural subjects."

Before Vy could answer, there was a call from the office, the voice was deep and firm, so familiar that all three of them turned their heads at the same time.

"Trinh Kha Vy. Come here, let's talk."

Teacher Le Trong An stood at the office door, holding a stack of papers, looking straight through his glasses at his student standing in the middle of the crowd, as if he had been waiting for this moment for a long time.