“Sorry,” she said while looking over her shoulder for an opening in the traffic, “this one’s ex-military. They stripped out any amenities, including the seatbelts. You’ll have to trust my driving.” He saw himself reflected in her sunglasses as she smirked at him.

Sam swung the Land Rover through a roundabout, expertly double-clutching a downshift into second gear and sneaking in ahead of a groaning Leyland bus. As they gained speed, a hot breeze blew in through the crude cabin vent flaps and sliding windows, doing little to counteract the sweat that poured freely down Tusker’s face.

“What do you think your father can get the navy to do?” Tusker shouted above the din of the engine and road noise.

“Thathi used to serve in the navy,” she replied. “He’s got an old pal that works at the base. I’m not sure what they can do, but it’ll be good to have their support.”

Tusker’s damp shirt was sticking to the vinyl seat back. It was too loud to carry on a conversation and they drove in silence. He glanced across at Sam. She had put on the same olive colored shorts he’d first seen her in and a ribbed tank top with no bra underneath. Her neck and chest shimmered with a mist of perspiration. She’d kicked off her rubber slippers when she got into the Land Rover, and her bare feet worked the clutch, brake, and gas pedals as she rowed through the gears. He found the whole scene somehow erotic and he reached across and put his hand on her bare thigh. It was cool and firm.

“Is this what you call, in America, distracted driving?” She flashed a smile without taking her eyes off the road.

Tusker closed his eyes and thought back to the night before, in the small bed, their hands quietly learning each other’s bodies in the dark. Baila music played in the next room. He traced the outline of her firm breasts, felt the stubble under her arms and the moistness between her legs. She had silently rolled over and straddled him. The whole thing hadn’t lasted long, and they lay side by side panting quietly, going to sleep without a word.

“We need to stop for gas.” Sam’s voice jolted Tusker upright. They were passing through Pasikudah, the last big town between Batticaloa and Trincomalee. The streets were choked with all manner of people and animals on the move—tuk-tuks, taxis, buses, bicycles and cattle. It was slow going. Sam used the horn liberally as she ground the Land Rover into second, then third, the gearbox protesting with a crunch. Finally, she turned into a Ceypetco service station on a street corner and switched off the engine. An attendant ambled over to the open window and she handed him a sheaf of rupee notes.