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Lam Trang runs a hand over his bald head, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. For a man of fifty-five, Lam is physically fit, not from time in the gym but from manual labor. His face remains youthful, though when he smiles, his bad teeth speak to a severe crack addiction in his distant past.
Lam stands on the corner of Broadway and Canal Street in New York City’s Chinatown. He appears lost in thought. Then a memory from long ago emerges from the dark chambers of his psyche to assert itself in the present moment. “It happened right here,” he says, adding, “I remember it like it was yesterday.”