Leili Florence Besharat Maletrope   On the road towards Vang Vieng, I dream of carpet- covered snails laying in grasses of Persian lime while, outside the padded walls of sleep, we graze the carcass of an overturned bus. An arsonist's dream, riddled with bullet holes and half- set aflame. I sleep through all of this and well, the scrape of metal entering my dream as the high- pitched scream of the cook counting the snails. When I finally wake up, the boy next to me whispers in Laos, reaching down to touch the hem of my skirt. In my broken translation it comes seven baby so gone. I learn that seven children died in a rebel attack only days ago. The words of the bus driver we pass into the safety now make me sick with the peculiar relief of a benediction read backwards. And now the dream of a few moments ago takes its sepia tones. Adjusts to a later premonition. The open wound of muscle writhing blithely unaware into its acid pulp.