When they pass a small town that is little more than a row of shops by the side of the road, Revathi says she needs a break and pulls over. They walk to a tiny kopitiam—just a wooden shack with plastic chairs beneath a picnic umbrella outside—and get coffee, good and strong with a layer of condensed milk at the bottom. As children, Henry remembers, before he and Janet were allowed coffee themselves, they’d fight to be the one to swirl the white into their father’s drink.

“Almost there,” says Revathi. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right, why do you keep asking me that?”

“Because you look like a nervous wreck. You’re doing that thing where your leg keeps twitching.”

“I can be anxious and still be all right. I’ve had a lot of practice.”

The table they are sitting at has cracked lino nailed over it. None of this has changed in decades, he can tell. Nothing at all different but the price of the coffee. Henry is crying a little, and has no idea why. Revathi kindly pretends not to see.

The Thai border is staffed by a single guard, and they have to rap at the glass to get him to take their passports. Betong is not all that different—Henry hears a lot of Chinese and Malay being spoken, along with Thai. He wonders how many Malayans ended up here after everything that happened, recreating their lives on the other side of the line.

The town is rather worn, but shows signs of recent prosperity. When they ask for directions, the locals point proudly at the squat pink lozenge of the Merlin Hotel, looming over the skyline. Just look for that, they say, you’ll never get lost.

They have lunch at a street-side stall—fishball noodles. He is able to order in Mandarin, and while waiting for the food to arrive, he asks the owner, a grey-haired woman, where to find the Ma Gong. She looks up from what she’s doing, dunking dishes in a plastic bucket of water to clean them. “You want the Peace Villages or the Friendship Villages?” she asks, smiling. Her front two teeth are missing.

“Friendship, I think. Is there a difference?”

“Two groups. They don’t agree about some things.”

He has questions about factions and ideologies, but can’t remember the Chinese words for these things. Instead, he asks for directions, and she points at the peaks around him, explaining what lies where. She speaks crisply, her accent more like a Mainlander than a Malaysian. Her expressions are old-fashioned, a little formal.

“My son-in-law works on one of the farms up there. He’ll be stopping by in a while, if you’re looking for a lift.”

He glances at Revathi, and she apparently knows what he’s thinking. “No, you go, I’ll stay down here,” she says. “I’d like to check out this pink hotel, see if it’s as good as all that. Maybe I’ll join you in a day or two, if you stay that long, but you should do this on your own. Text me if you need anything.”