I pulled a tissue out of the box on the nightstand and wrapped the pistol and zipped it into a compartment of my bag, worried that if I were going for my phone I might somehow shoot off my hand. Later, I would address the gun with Inchoy, but now, as it was in my possession, it seemed fine to let it slide until an opportune moment. I would say something droll like: “I understand you might want to kill yourself, but if so, can you please wait until I’m not around?” Or: “This is not how I envisioned our vacation.” Ridiculous statements that would pave the way for more direct discussions about the black hole of his despair. I wondered how Inchoy had acquired the gun, but this was the Philippines, and all he had to do, more than likely, was to stand on the sidewalk outside his house waving a wad of pesos, calling: “Baril, baril.” My duty was to keep Inchoy occupied, to remind him of the many things that were still capable of diversion. I called for room service, demanding the tapsilogs and also two pots of very strong coffee.

Inchoy and I had originally planned to spend the morning at the BenCab Museum. Benedicto Cabrera was a painter of international reputation who, as a child, had sold comic books and cleaning rags on the streets of Tondo. We had thought, because of the presence of Tondo in both BenCab’s and Bibo’s history, that it would be a good place to start the holiday. But neither of us felt up to art and, as Inchoy pointed out, the morning was already gone.

“We can go tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll appreciate it more when we’re not hungover.”

“Okay,” I said. Breakfast was now done and I was feeling surprisingly human again. “Why don’t we go to the market, you know, Session Road, and wander over to Burnham Park. And then we can come back and have a nap. And then get dinner. That’s the day.”

“Not overly ambitious,” said Inchoy.

“It’s a vacation.”