“All but this,” he said, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a cheap plastic wallet. It was clearly not stuffed with money. He reached into one of the compartments and pulled out a photograph folded in half. He opened it carefully, like a librarian unpacking the Dead Sea Scrolls. It had obviously seen many such openings. The only thing holding the two halves together was an age-browned strip of tape on the back. The picture was almost entirely sepia from years of back-pocket sweat. He laid it down on his desk and Siri and Daeng stepped up to examine it. It had been taken in the village square. The focus was surprisingly good. Some twelve children of various sizes stood at the foot of the village pillar and two handsome men stood on either side of it. One was Satsai, as adorable in his twenties as Daeng had imagined. The other, a little shorter, cropped hair, round-rimmed glasses, was Hiro. Both men were smiling, not the grins thrust forward for photographs, but actual happy smiles. Siri was overjoyed to put a face to the writer.

“When was this taken?” he asked.

“About two weeks after he returned from that first mission,” said Satsai. “The children in this photo would have been dead if it weren’t for the medicine Hiro conjured up.”

“Would you mind if I borrowed this picture for a day or two to show around in Thakhek?” asked Siri.

Satsai looked shocked at the thought, but then seemed to reprimand himself mentally.

“If you think it would help,” he said. “But I would like it back when you’re finished with it. It’s the only picture of him I have.”

“And what of the second mission?” Daeng asked.

Satsai stared out over the roofs of the village.