There were several buses pulled up in the bays. The first was to Pangasinan, the second to Vigan. Behind these two was a bus to Caloocan, which was at least headed in the right direction. A queue had formed, which meant it was leaving soon. I stepped quickly to the front of the line. No one complained. I was adopting that regal bearing that was so false but was the privilege of my class. I was the kind of person you did not want to anger. A young woman, the bus attendant, both uniformed and in heels, asked for my ticket.

“I don’t have one,” I said. “Which seat is free?”

“Ma’am, you need a ticket,” she said.

“Then you will sell me one,” I said. I took out my wallet. “Which seat is free? Or should I sit anywhere?”

I chose a window seat near the back of the bus. The overhead compartment was stuffed with brooms, as were many others. A young woman sat beside me playing Candy Crush on her phone. Every now and then, her eyes would flicker over at me, but if she was curious how I had ended up on a bus alone, she kept it to herself.

We were reaching the outskirts of Baguio, beginning our descent on the winding switchbacks. I was beginning to make sense out of the chaos. It was as if a corrupt flower had finally bloomed and was now releasing its perfume into the air. José Martin had been right that something was up. Maybe he’d figured it out, which explained why he had gone into hiding. Eagle’s Nest was not a resort but some sort of alliance formed with Gumboc to bring on martial law. Laird had wanted to be a part of something, had presented himself as useful—a martyr with a narrative: he was a naïve American, the kind of person who would go to Marawi to understand its devastation, the kind of fool who would be kidnapped, whose connections to Manila’s elite would terrify the oligarchs into compliance should Gumboc declare martial law. He had seen an opportunity to make a difference, and he had leapt at it. I thought, Tomorrow is only found in the calendar of fools. And in this saw a second meaning, because it was possible that Laird—now that I had seen him—might not survive the night.

Chet had known this and must have gone along with it, because he wanted to tame the general disorder and thought martial law the best way to achieve that end. This was not the Chet I knew. Chet would never be involved with Gumboc. But he had been.

We were just entering San Fernando when Chet called. I watched the ringing of the phone, unwilling to pick up, even though I knew I needed him.

I finally answered. “Chet,” I said.

“Where are you?”

“I’m on the Caloocan bus, just outside San Fernando.”