There was a verandah off to the side, and I crossed to the door passing the canopied bed, covered with stacks of paper, to go outside. What had once been an impressive view was now largely obscured by high-rises, but I could still look into the garden, where a houseboy was trimming the lawn with a set of shears. The traffic passing on nearby E. Rodriguez created a cacophony of blaring horns and occasional spurts of music. It had rained all morning and now that it had stopped, the heat was generating a cloud of steam that the city was steeping in.

I lit a cigarette and checked that the Wi-Fi on my phone was on. The news was full of shootings and the investigation of the slaughtered Korean, but Gumboc took no responsibility. Instead, he had assembled an assortment of police officers for an orchestrated dressing down. He had placed the blame for all the killings on their corruption, instructing them that should they not improve their behavior, he would have them cleaning the Pasig River—the polluted waterway that bisected the city—or send them to fight the Muslim insurgents in the south, who had gained notoriety for beheading more than one unlucky tourist. I thought, These are dangerous times. And then: It is always dangerous here. In the street, a passing vendor was calling, “mais, mais,” as he circuited the neighborhood. The wall surrounding my aunt’s house was topped with broken glass to discourage thieves, and, looking past this glittering menace, I was following the vendor as he pushed his cart of steamed corn when my phone pinged with a message.

You’re back.

It was Inchoy, sending a text through WhatsApp. I had requested a library pass from the University of Santo Tomas, where Inchoy taught philosophy, and it was only a matter of time before he learned that I was in Manila.

You’re still here, I replied.

Pick you up 7. Dinner in Tondo. Bibo wants to see you.