“Hello, Laird,” I responded. “Nice to meet you.” I looked over at my aunt, eyebrows raised.

“I was telling Laird how good it is that he has dropped by today as you are going to your dinner with all the journalists and writers.” My aunt seemed genuinely happy at the accident. “And that of course he will join you. You young people who are interested in writing and books have so much to talk about. And he must be so bored listening to us old folks.”

Tita Rosa was old, but she was never boring. Still, I watched the slow wash of relief work its way over her as she felt herself being unburdened of Laird. I excused myself to freshen up and change. What annoyance I had at Tita Rosa’s ambush resolved itself quickly: this was Manila and duty presented itself in clear, direct ways. Resignation was the backbone of survival here. Resistance only created anxiety. And at least Laird wasn’t in shorts or wearing some ridiculous T-shirt. He seemed quite presentable, which I had not anticipated.

When I emerged from the house, he was waiting at the bottom of the steps, standing perfectly still. Mannie brought the car around and got out, giving Laird an appraising look no less intense than my own. I introduced them, and there was no fist bump, just a polite hello. Laird was matching my froideur with his own extreme reserve. We sat together in the middle seat of the van as we pulled into the street.

“Is it cool enough for you?” I asked. “I can ask Mannie to turn up the air-conditioning.”

“Thank you, Ting, but I am fine. I prefer it on the warm side.”

Laird seemed to take this as a point of pride.

After a brief barreling down to the corner of Twelfth Street, we were soon stalled, and found ourselves inching through the traffic on E. Rodriguez.

“I read your article in Vice,” he said, finally. “One can learn something of the current political environment in it but little of your views.”

“That’s journalism,” I replied.

He nodded but seemed unconvinced. The conversation—brief as it was—already seemed in danger of dying.

“So,” I said, “I hear you’re getting married. Congratulations are in order.”

“Yes.” Laird shifted in his seat and cracked his neck. His poise struck me as studied. “Cheryl’s great. Have you met her?”

“Not yet.” I tried to sound regretful about it, but it rang as false at it was. “But I’m sure Tita Remi will bring us together sometime soon. How did you two meet?”

“I was speaking at a protest and she introduced herself afterward.”

“A protest?”

“Against Gumboc. At Berkeley.”

“I didn’t know you were at Berkeley.” It was the wrong thing to say, as my surprise was undeniably snobbish, and I caught his weary smile.

Laird said, “I was getting my master’s in political science.”