“First clean out the fridge,” I said. “Kitchen things go in boxes, then to the sari sari store.” Bibo’s belongings for the family would be picked up there. “I’ll pack the masks.” These I would bring to Inchoy. There was a picture of Bibo and Inchoy framed on the bookcase. They were at a beach restaurant smiling together behind a platter filled with prawns. The picture must have been taken by one of those people who snap pictures at tourist areas and then sell them to you. I turned the picture facedown on the shelf and shot Cherry a challenging look, but she was already eyeing the kitchen area, breaking it down into the necessary tasks. Bibo had kept the place neat and although the apartment was packed with stuff, the walls groaning with Igorot masks and shields, it was small. We would be done with this final task in a matter of hours.

When the majority of the boxes were filled and organized, I lit a cigarette, taking in how the emptied place seemed even smaller. Mannie, who had been carrying the boxes, was sitting at the table eating siopao. “When you’re finished,” I said, “the aircon comes out and that goes to the sari sari store with the other things.”

“Yung banyo po,” said Cherry from the bathroom, which I had forgotten.

I stood with her in the tiny space—a toilet, a shower stall, a sink with a small shelf above it with cheerful cosmetics, lotions, and a picture of Mariah Carey grinning madly, something clipped from a magazine and framed in gold plastic. “Just throw out what you don’t want,” I said. I picked up Bibo’s hairbrush, which, like her other things, was carefully maintained, but still had a few strands of Bibo’s stick-straight, iron-strong hair. Inchoy would want it, so I put it in my handbag.

I sent Cherry home in a GrabCar, which would be considered ridiculously extravagant, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to get back to my aunt’s house and take a bath, put on pajamas, and go to bed even though it would only be eight or nine. I could almost feel my head on the pillow. I picked up my phone and texted Inchoy that I would be dropping boxes by in about two hours and then checked my phone. There was a text from Ann.

Publisher pulled Kent J. Baxter book.

I read it twice. Was this text really meant for me? Who was Kent J. Baxter? I knew the name but couldn’t place it. I decided to brave the spotty, expensive cell service and looked up “Kent J. Baxter book pulled.”