“I am so sorry for your loss,” I said.

She nodded and followed me into the dining room. I motioned for her to take a seat and she did and I took a seat and we sat in unproductive silence.

“Have you eaten?” I asked.

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

“Perhaps some fruit?” I looked over at Beng, who turned quickly for the kitchen. “How can I help you?”

“I’m not really sure. I would have come earlier, but I didn’t know what to say. It’s just that he was so grateful to you for your help. He thought you were one of the people who really understood.”

“Understood?”

“What he was working for. His great dreams for the future.”

Had Laird really spoken of me in this way?

“Laird said that you were one of only a few here that he thought of as a friend.”

“He did?” Maybe he had. The woman, her eyes a parody of earnestness, were desperately sincere. “Well, he wasn’t one for small talk. And neither am I. I suppose friendship comes easy—”

“For him, yes, and admiration. He inspired us all. You couldn’t know Laird without feeling that power, that force. He understood what truth was.”

She was clearly gripped in grief, but instead of overwhelming her, it seemed to be giving her strength. The fan tracked by, disturbing a stack of napkins, but I couldn’t find the energy to fix or move it. The napkins scattered, dancing end over end, unobstructed across the table. I found this girl a strange choice for Laird. She was very pretty but as American as one could be in accent and movement, in her directness, which was veiled but not concealed by her grief. She didn’t seem to fit his stern posturing. She was the kind of Filipino American who in high school was on student council, a valedictorian, a blond football player’s girlfriend. And in college, a straight-A student trained in the rhetoric of social justice, someone who went to rallies but who paid with her phone at Starbucks. “You met Laird at an anti-Gumboc rally,” I said, remembering.

She nodded. “He was a leader.”

I thought I owed it to her to tell her that Laird and I had not been friends but couldn’t figure out how to do it. At this point, did it matter? Maybe the polite and generous thing to do was to hear this woman out, offer her condolences, and send her into the world with whatever falsehoods offered comfort.

She shifted her gaze to me, signaling intent. “Laird’s truth, his way, you see, he found it in your article.”

“My article in Vice?” I remembered what he’d said in the car ride. Laird had been disappointed that I hadn’t taken a stand.