We were seated at an upstairs table that offered a good view of Session Road. I had worried that there would not be enough to fill our days, but already we were running out of time. Tomorrow would be the BenCab Museum, and then there was an antique dealer on the outskirts of the city who had good quality Kalinga and Bontoc traditional carvings. Even though there were boxes of this stuff shoved in the corner of Inchoy’s Scout Castor living room, I knew he would not leave Baguio before selecting another few items. And I knew that my birthday gift for Inchoy would come from this store as well. We had also planned to hire a car to go outside the city to view the rice terraces, where we would get lunch. But right now, a snack seemed a good idea, as did a nap.

My halo halo came in a tall glass with shaved ice, all the various ingredients stacked within it. There was a scoop of ube on the top, as well as a piece of leche flan. I chopped away at the ice. Inchoy, who had ordered pork chow fan, was tallying my purchases so that I would have a good accounting for my aunt.

“How many jars of ube do you want?”

“Two,” I said. “But don’t put that in the accounting. That’s pasalubong, remember?”

“Right.” Inchoy nodded.

I looked idly out the window. The sidewalks were clogged with a predictable selection of humanity—mothers holding the hands of children, children holding balloons, men with fanny packs. A woman was running down the sidewalk with a T-shirt held in front of her. I thought of the shirtless, G-string-wearing man by the Lion’s Head monument and imagined her bringing it to him. I imagined that it was her who he had been texting: Bring me a T-shirt. I looked over at Inchoy, who was using the calculator on his phone, then back to the street. A sleek black Mercedes was slowly inching its way along with the jeepneys and taxis. I wondered if I knew who was in it and was chiding myself for thinking that I might when a man walked quickly to the car, opened the door, and got in. It was Rocco Basilang.

“Inchoy,” I said. “I think I just saw Rocco Basilang.”

“Maybe you did,” said Inchoy. “There’s a lot of real estate development in the area.”

“I wonder if Chet’s here,” I said.

“Why don’t you call and ask?” asked Inchoy.

“Because he didn’t tell me. He knows I’m here. If he’s also here, he’s keeping it from me.”

Inchoy did not seem impressed by this and was looking at a handwritten receipt. He held it out to me. “Ting,” he said. “Is this a four or a seven?”