The video was poor quality, the sound scratchily wavering in and out. The first view was of treetops and moved unsteadily until it panned down to show a number of men, faces concealed with black scarves and ski masks, standing around a kneeling figure, his head bowed. As soon as a man’s voice was heard to start speaking, Yoren muted his computer, looking pointedly at me. The men, all in black and uniformed, were also carrying machetes.

“I don’t think you should be watching this,” Yoren said again. “This video was pulled off the internet several hours ago. I only saw it as an embassy officer. I’m not sure who reposted it.”

I watched the kneeling figure, feeling a buzzing sensation, as if I were getting a migraine. My mouth was dry and I realized that I kept shaking my head uncontrollably. The sound muted, I could only assume that there were people yelling. One of the black-clad men kicked the kneeling figure, and then, grabbing a handful of hair, pulled the kneeling man’s face into view. It was Laird.

Yoren shut the screen of his computer, pushing it downward.

“If you want to know what happens, I will tell you,” he said.

“What is this video?” said my aunt. “Ting, what is this video?”

“Tita,” I said. “Give me a minute.”

I looked at Yoren, at his pale-blue eyes, inquisitive yet composed.

“Why,” he asked, “do you think your friend sent you this video?”

“Because we know this man. His name is Laird Bontotot.” The silence resonated around the room. Beng was still holding the bowl of atis. I asked, “Is he dead?”

Yoren nodded several times, slowly, carefully. “Yes, it would seem that way.” My aunt had bowed her head, and I could see her lips begin to move in silent prayer. Yoren patted my arm. “I am very sorry.”

Two days later the head was dumped in front of Baclaran Church. It was hard to think of the head as belonging to Laird, because that was a horror beyond comprehension: what I knew to be true just seemed impossible. A week after that, a bomb went off inside the church on a Sunday morning, killing twenty churchgoers and injuring two hundred more. These actions mimicked others in Jolo township, deep in the south, in the heart of the Bangsamoro. Nationwide martial law was declared that evening. I tried to get hold of José Martin, but he wasn’t answering his phone. Zackito told me that he had gone into hiding. The papers were still printing the news, but many of the journalists had disappeared, while others had been picked up and incarcerated, their reporting against the government seen as treasonous, although the charge was most often libel. There was now a curfew and everyone had to be off the streets at 9:00 p.m. or run the risk of being arrested.