“What happens if you do not vote?”

Highway 26 is a two-lane rural digression, the asphalt chewed up by winter chains, the road itself patient and winding. White farmhouses dot the landscape, the occasional satellite dish like an oversized birdbath cocked on a roof. There are silos here and there, fields sprinkled with bales of hay, herds of cows contentedly chewing, the methane gas billowing invisibly around them. This time of year the corn is shoulder-high.

The first thing you’d noticed about him the night before were his lips bee-stung and pouty, his physique small-boned, delicate, like a heron picking its way across a thin blue stream.

Freedom is still a good ten miles away past the turn off to Beaver Dam. One by one a line of cars waits their turn to make a dash past a semi hauling portable toilets; to make matters worse, there’s a farmer riding a tractor on the side of the road. You turn the radio down, slide off your sandals. “What do you mean what happens if you don’t vote?” you ask.

Dúc looks straight ahead, his skin pale and clear. There’s something slightly feminine about him, his glossy black hair tousled stylishly, his cheekbones like cliffs cut into his face. The first thing you’d noticed about him the night before were his lips bee-stung and pouty, his physique small-boned, delicate, like a heron picking its way across a thin blue stream. “I mean if you do not vote,” he says, taking his sunglasses off, “what does the government do to you?”

The car in front of you makes a break for it, the Porta Johns wobbling uncertainly as the car speeds by the semi. “Nothing happens,” you say. “Hell, most people don’t vote.” A sign reads passing lane, 1/2 mile. Already you begin to accelerate, wonder if you can wait that long.

He repeats this fact, trying to hide the incredulousness in his voice. “Most people in America do not vote.” Despite his clinical tone, you can sense his confusion.

“See, only half of the people who are eligible to vote are even registered,” you explain, “and of that half, only half turn out.” The passing lane comes up suddenly. In the right lane a Winnebago lumbers up the steep incline, forcing the semi to stay left with you on his tail. You remember last year’s local midterm election, how at 6:30 p.m. on your way to buy an eggplant you finally remembered the polls but it was too late. “Yeah, you don’t have to vote here,” you say, then add resignedly as if discussing a lover who leaves the toilet seat up, “that’s America.”

Dúc stares at the Winnebago as you crawl by. The thing is probably bigger than his house. “Everyone votes in Viet Nam,” he says. “The hamlet with the highest percent voting gets an award.”

On the way home you’ll stop and take a picture of him by the sign in the opposite direction, his face unsmiling like the first pioneers. In the viewfinder he’ll become a small figure standing under the shadow of a highway sign in the fading summer light.

Obviously not everyone votes if one hamlet can have the best turn out, you think, but you don’t say this. “Naturally,” you say instead. “Everyone’s a party member.” The semi finally pulls right, but by now, the passing lane has come to an end.

“I am a member,” Dúc says, “but only thirty percent of the population are official members of the Communist Party.” Now it’s your turn to be confused. “Oh yes,” he says, his dark eyes almond-shaped. “In Viet Nam not everyone is a Communist.”

“Really,” you say. The semi turns its blinker on, slows down to make a left on County Q. “Guess you learn something new every day.”

“There.” Dúc points at a green sign. “Freedom, eight miles,” he reads. On the way home you’ll stop and take a picture of him by the sign in the opposite direction, his face unsmiling like the first pioneers. In the viewfinder he’ll become a small figure standing under the shadow of a highway sign in the fading summer light. But in the here and now the semi makes its turn. You give it some gas, flip down your visor, surge ahead. There’s nothing in between you and Freedom but eight miles of America’s Dairyland.