The other Burma

The streets of this version of Burma were eerily quiet at dusk, the air thick with the scent of incense and the pervasive scent of an open sewer. My pockets were empty of anything useful; the local currency was unfamiliar, the bills etched with symbols that shifted when I tried to read them. 

At a dimly lit teahouse, I spread out what I had on the wooden table: a half-spent battery cell, a pocket knife from a universe where steel doesn’t rust, and a hand-drawn map of a place that no longer existed. The old man across from me, wrapped in a faded, longyi, examined them with sharp, knowing eyes. 

"This," he said, tapping the battery, "will get you a meal." He pushed it back toward me. "The knife… that buys my silence."

I waited. 

"The map," he finally said, folding it carefully, "gets you a guide."

That’s how I found myself wedged between crates of dried fish in the back of a sputtering, ancient truck, barreling down a red-dirt road toward the jungle. The driver—my new, reluctant guide—said little, only that the last portal sighting had been two days northeast, near the ruins where time ran backward after dark.

"We reach by morning," he muttered, shifting gears. "If we’re lucky."

"And if we’re not?" I asked. 

He grinned, showing too many teeth. "Then you’ll need more than a map to get home."