“Do you have something for us?” Siri asked.

“I do.” Ging smiled, reached into his back sack, and pulled out a parcel the size and shape of an Omo washing powder packet. He nodded and handed it to Siri. “And with that, I’ll be on my way.”

Siri was tempted to let him go but he knew his wife would berate him for doing so. And it was nice to have mail delivered.

“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to join us for a meal,” said Siri.

“I . . . I don’t think I’ll have time.”

“Madam Daeng would be pleased if you could spare a few minutes.”

“Well, I . . . All right, then. To keep Madam Daeng happy,” said the man, walking triumphantly into the restaurant. He removed his helmet and found an empty stool. Mr. Geung welcomed him by name and Geung’s wife, Tukta, served him without asking what he wanted. In fact, after forty years in the postal service, all he really wanted was respect.

“What’s that?” Daeng asked her husband. She was bent over the noodle trough. The steam wafted around her like a dream sequence but she never seemed to work up a sweat.

“Parcel,” said Siri, heading for the stairs.

Daeng could have repeated her question but a simple eyebrow raise stopped him in his tracks.

“Feels like a book,” said Siri. “Heavy. Ging just dropped it off.”

“That’s very nice for you,” said Daeng, ladling out four bowls with the deftness of a conjurer. “But don’t you think our customers could use a bit of maître-d’ing?”

“Darling, your noodles sell themselves. They don’t need promoting.”

“After a day of dealing with bureaucracy our customers appreciate a little sympathy and a few laughs. We aren’t just a noodle shop. We’re a wellness agency and you are the doctor of compassion.”

“But I . . .”

“The book can wait.”

The book waited until 8 p.m., when the customers had all returned to their overcrowded homes, the tables were cleared and clean, and Mr. Geung and Tukta were back in their room talking to the baby that wouldn’t be born for another six months. Everyone was aware that the odds were stacked against a woman with Down syndrome producing a healthy child. And when the father also had Down syndrome those odds tumbled into infinity. But, like Dr. Siri, Geung had friends in other dimensions and he’d been shown their daughter in a dream. Geung said she looked a little like Sarinthip Siriwan. Siri pointed out that it would be a most difficult birth considering the size of the Thai actress. The couple laughed at that for a week.

“So, are you going to open it?” Daeng asked.

“I was wondering what the chances are that it’s a bomb,” said Siri.

They were sitting on the riverbank sipping their after-noodle rice whisky cocktails. The lights of Sri Chiang Mai on the Thai side were all out; probably another power cut. The Thais were renowned for creative wiring. So, with the moon yet to make an appearance, the darkness was thick: like staring out over a landscape of tar. Daeng got to her feet.