I read through as Tito Iñigo stirred by my feet. It sounded like other books. Is that what writing was? I highlighted the paragraph and tapped hard on the Delete button.

Perhaps I would be better served by opening pages that located Timicheg geographically or historically or both. I could start with whatever volcanic event first launched the Philippines from beneath the sea and then narrow in on the region. I could talk about the early engineers of the rice terraces. I could write about how their knowledge of irrigation and excavation and the turn of the planets showed a sophistication worthy of pride and how when the Spaniards showed up, the Bontoc and their neighbors were not the simple barbarians they were thought to be but rather an ancient culture on par with the Mayans. I could get the great wheel of history rolling along and then shove Schneidewind into the mechanism, bringing the gears to a screeching halt.

Or maybe I could think about our human fascination with curiosities: Timicheg as elephant man. Did we all need the weirdos in order to make ourselves feel normal?

“Ate Ting,” said Beng, from the doorway. “May bisita para sa yo.”

“Sino?”

Beng shrugged. “Babae.”

I got up from the dresser that served as my desk and went into the vestibule, Tito Iñigo following at my ankles. There was a young woman by the phone stand looking at herself in the mirror in absolute stillness. She was dressed in jeans and a white blouse. Her hair was loose about her shoulders and perfectly styled. She wore small diamond earrings and a gold necklace. Her leather sneakers were immaculately white. I cleared my throat to let her know that I was there as it seemed that she could have stood transfixed by her own reflection indefinitely.

“Christina,” she said, awoken.

“Yes,” I responded.

“You weren’t expecting me,” she added, suddenly dismayed. Her accent was unadulterated American, the r’s hard, the consonants soft, a lack of questioning politeness in the delivery.

“Well, no, but it’s quite all right.” I gestured to the dining room, wondering how to politely find out who she was but somehow feeling guilty for not knowing.

“I spoke to Tita Rosa and she said she’d left you a message.” She fished her phone out of her bag, a large yellow Kate Spade tote, as if there were something contained there that would vindicate her presence.

I looked over at Beng, who was suddenly wide-eyed with guilt. “Well,” I said. “I didn’t get the message, but you have found me here.”

“I would come back later, but we’re leaving tomorrow, you see. My parents are with his parents, fixing the paperwork for the transportation.” She stopped, unwilling to supply details, and turned her enormous eyes—doll eyes with heavy lashes in a doll face—to me.

It was Laird’s fiancée. Who else could it be?