Outside of a restaurant in Transit across from ChhunBori, Thailand, a thirteen year old, barebones, and dirty looking shoeless boy with no shirts but a dirty blue short was staring at a glass of ice coffee. From the outside heat, the water dripping down the tall glass exposing the black color ice amid the creamy thick water. In the market, there were many people walk around the boy but he seemed not to hear anything but the banging of small ice cubes against the glass. As the man with two kids sit and drink the coffee, the ice moved against the glass created mouthwatering sensation for the boy. He locked his eyes to the glass as he never seen anything like this before in his life. In the while, he was hoping that someone in the restaurant could spare a piece of bread, a zip of water, some leftover, or a little shade to stay from the sun. As he blocked all the sound around him, most of the people inside the restaurant block the view of him outside the window as well.
Now he was about 5 feet away from this delicious dark cloud in a glass of ice. Under the morning heat, the boy’s stomach rumble and his mouth turned watery. The two kids and their father continued with their breakfast and barricaded the existence the boy. The young boy gazed into the eyes of the two kids at the table and wondering how lucky both of them were to have a father with money to spend on something heavenly as that.
Before long, the kids and their father finished the breakfast. Left behind were half melted ice cubes, noodle plates, and two glasses of yellowish orange juice. The boy walked home. In a long tent that shades about 20 families, the boys opened the dried rice that his mother cooked months before and have his meal for the day. As a refugee running from Cambodia, the boy was trained to put dried rice in a long bag and tied to his waist during his runs toward Thailand. That boy was me.