Pham Thu Trang

The singing starts before dawn. Four or five in the morning, when the alley is still dark and narrow and holding its breath. The houses face each other across a strip of concrete barely wide enough for two motorbikes to pass without touching. Sound has nowhere to go here. It hits walls and comes back. She throws her doors open and sings. She is about twenty, maybe. I know she has a neurological condition—people say it quietly, with the tone that means explanation and permission at the same time. We have spoken before, in small ways—offering snacks, simple questions, asking…