Tusker shut the door and took a long draw on the tea. It was strong and sweet with milk, the color of wet clay and utterly delicious. Odd for Ian to come so early, thought Tusker, glancing at his watch. With Upali gone for the week, they’d agreed on a later start today. Maybe Ian forgot. In any case, Tusker thought, I’ve still got time for a shower and my tea. Ian can wait a bit.

He set the mug down on the small desk, dropped to the floor and hammered out five quick sets of 20 pushups. Though slinging diving gear all day was a workout by itself, Tusker had kept up this routine since college. He hated the gym, and his only steady exercise was pushups and the occasional open-water swim when he had the chance. By the time he was done with the fifth set, his lean, muscled torso glistened with sweat.

He walked over to the window and finished the tea in a few gulps. The fort was waking up. A man pedaled by on a heavy bicycle with an impossibly large load of fish on the back, no doubt the previous night’s catch. Tusker’s eyes caught those of an older woman in the upstairs apartment across the road, who was hanging wet towels to dry. He smiled at her but she averted her gaze and went back inside. Tusker was still shirtless, and suddenly felt very white and exposed.

When Tusker arrived in Sri Lanka six months ago, Upali had arranged lodging for him in a small guesthouse, the Rampart Inn, on Pedlar Street inside the Galle Fort. The inn was a small two-story building wedged between a trendy cafe and a Buddhist monastery. Just across the road were the sloping grassy ramparts, topped with stone battlements that dropped off to the sea 50 feet below. These ancient fort walls were what saved the residents of the fort from the wall of water that rolled in on Boxing Day, 2004, while most of the rest of Galle town was obliterated. Sidath had owned the Rampart Inn since the 1980s, and it had become a favorite of aid workers and NGOs during the aftermath of the tsunami.

Tusker knew Ian was waiting, but he badly needed a shower, having skipped one last night. The previous day, he’d borrowed a bicycle and ridden down to the resort town of Unawatuna. There he spent the day playing cricket with the local kids, and pounding back Lion lagers at a beach bar until midnight. As he flicked on the anemic fluorescent bulb in the bathroom, he caught movement up near the ceiling. A gecko clung to the wall, its tail flicking. In its mouth was a half-consumed black cockroach, rear legs still twitching. “Circle of life,” Tusker said aloud.