Three highly illegal, no-holds-barred fights for a Phuket mobster named Lo Prang had brought her funds, which in turn had gone towards a new ID, melanin therapy to turn her already dusky Hispanic skin a more Asian shade, subtle viral reshaping of eyelids and nose and jaw, all geared at giving her a more Thai profile, and fooling any casual face recognition software.

She was now Sunee Martin, a half-Thai, half-Canadian tourist who’d come to experience the land of her mother’s birth. The identity wouldn’t get her across any national borders, but it would hold up against casual inspection by a local cop.

She’d spent an extra month in Phuket, openly visiting a temple each day, shopping and eating with funds from her new bank account, walking past the American consulate, putting herself in view of cameras, in situations that tested her identity. If it was going to fail, it must fail there. She would not lead the ERD where she was going.

It held.

The Mae Dong Guest House staff shook their heads mutely when she asked about an orphanage or home for special children nearby. But they had a room for her.

Out in the relative cool of early evening, the shopkeepers and fuel station attendants gave the same mute shakes of their head to her questions. An orphanage nearby? Mai chai, they said. May cow jai.

They didn’t know.

But their eyes shifted to the sides. They were lying to her. Were they protecting the children?

In the tea house later, she chatted with locals, made small talk, laughed with Thai women and men. Then she’d ask, and silence would descend. People would look away. Her jokes would suddenly fall on deaf ears. At the third table, a Muslim man crossed his legs, bringing the sole of his foot to face her. She didn’t miss the insult. At the fourth, she caught a woman in her peripheral vision make the sign for bad luck.

Not protecting the children, then. Something else. Superstition.

Sam retired early.

That night she dreamt of the ring, the seven-foot-tall giant they called Glao Bot, the skull crusher. Three hundred pounds of gene-hacked muscle, his head bald from the boosted testosterone, amped to his eyeballs on p-meth, eyes glaring, veins bulging everywhere.

She was there again, the roar of the crowds in her ears, Thai techno cranked up way too loud, flashbulbs flaring all around her, Glao Bot coming at her, inhuman snarl on his face, the bloodthirsty crowd cheering louder, cheering for him to get his hands on her, to pound her skull into the post. The foul smell of his breath as he came near. Then Glao Bot on his back, gasping, blood covering his face from his broken nose, his hands rising up to his nearly crushed trachea, eyes wide with fear, the crowd hushing in shock and disbelief, then roaring ever louder.