At dusk, the rooftop becomes a cinema of sorts. Someone has rigged a projector; the film—grainy, perhaps pirated, unquestionably loved—casts flickers across corrugated metal and a bowl of papaya salad. Vietnamese captions crawl in their tidy rows, and the viewers below follow the story with a mix of concentration and distraction. Between bites of spicy fruit and puffs of cigarette smoke, fragments of other lives are translated into understanding. For a few hours, language is a communal tool rather than a barrier.