“Not everyone.” Chet put his hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the escalator. “I have been refurbishing an apartment in Makati. I bought it from someone who had to leave the country, and I got a good deal. I thought you might like to see it. It is something you would have liked to see before. And I want to talk to you.” He drew his eyebrows together, regarding me with either respect or distaste. I did not know which, although I recognized the look. “Sometimes you say you won’t do things just to let me know that you have a choice. But you aren’t doing anything now. Don’t say no just because you want me to know you can. I do know, Ting. How could I not?”

VIII

VIII

We were speeding down Edsa, with its animated billboards and spiraling exits. There was never a time in this city when everyone slept, and this was the night shift. There were street cleaners; there were call center workers heading to the office, people who worked on American time. Chet was silently looking at the road ahead, switching lanes with perverse determination. Driving was never a neutral activity to him but offered the opportunity to be a winner rather than a loser. In the back seat, Top Gun was looking out the window, his hand resting on his hip, where I knew he kept his gun.

“Top Gun,” I said. “How many children do you have?”

He seemed startled to be asked. “I have four.”

“And how old are they?”

“The oldest is fifteen, the youngest nine.”

“Are they in school?”

“Ting!” said Chet. “Leave him alone. Can’t you see he’s working?”