Gumboc was a member of a powerful Cebuano family. His father had been in Batac’s cabinet, but Gumboc presented himself as a tough guy from the wilds of Mindanao. Gumboc’s faltering English made this inaccurate portrayal stick. In the foreign press you seldom heard about his training as a lawyer, yet it was Gumboc’s knowledge of the legal process that made him such an effective manipulator. I would have to think about how to address the president, because writing about Gumboc made me nervous. And Timicheg had never known Gumboc, which seemed yet another reason to leave him out of the narrative.

Inchoy had plowed through a bushel of papers in the last hour. I had watched his industry with a mild jealousy, amazed that he could maintain this level of academic engagement without losing his mind. But Inchoy loved his job. Many of his students were first-generation college attendees, the children of overseas workers who had slaved and saved and were now able to pay for the tuition, uniforms, books, and housing that might pull them out of poverty. A generation ago, this would have been impossible.

Inchoy had one student who he thought had the makings of a first-rate philosopher or even a politician—the kind the country really needed. This student’s mother was a nurse in Israel. His father minded their family of five—cooking, cleaning, and supplementing their income as a Grab driver. All around me, I saw the working poor toiling in merciless conditions for little compensation. I was proud of Inchoy’s work. I felt his hope.

“Done,” he said. He began tidying the papers, arranging them to fit back into his bag.

“The work of the just in the face of the adversary is never done,” I replied.

“How about you? Anything you’d like to share?”

I looked at my introduction. “Absolutely not.”

I took a taxi back to my aunt’s house. Inchoy and I were going to meet at Café Adriatico that night, a get-together for our friend Zackito, a novelist and journalist who was back from Honolulu.

When I entered the foyer, I could hear Tita Rosa’s voice bubbling musically from the dining room. She was entertaining someone but whoever it was remained hidden in the corner. I was not in the mood to smile at one of my aunt’s Konyo friends, women who often addressed me in Spanish, which I looked like I should be able to speak and could not, but my aunt was speaking English.

“Ting!” she said. “I’m so glad you’re back! Come meet Laird.”

Laird Bontotot presented himself, coming to stand beside my aunt. Dark skinned and tall, he was wearing a short-sleeve, collared white shirt and immaculate jeans. His shoulders were thrown back as if he’d been in the military, and he raised his somber, black eyes to me in a dignified way.

“Ting,” he said, nodding carefully.