So Chet had bought me a book. That was, if nothing else, a first. I tore off the paper and held the book for Beng to see. On the cover in big letters was written: Mutuality: Anthropology’s Changing Terms of Engagement. Beng was, indeed, disappointed but shrugged it off and left me to my privacy. I sat on the bed, wrapped in the towel, and opened the book’s cover. This book was a library copy and looked to have been borrowed from Ateneo, the university where Chet and I had first met. There was the paper slip taped in the front with various dates stamped in it, but on the bottom of these was written, in Chet’s handwriting: Today to Ting, with Love, Forever. He must have been punning on checkout dates and due-back dates. I dropped the book onto the bed just as my phone started to ring. The caller was, of course, Chet.

“Do you like my gift?”

“Chet, did you steal it?”

“Only three people have checked it out in the last five years. It’s about Schneidewind and Timicheg. You can use it for your book.”

Schneidewind? Timicheg? Chet must have been talking to Inchoy. “You should bring it back.”

“I can’t. I already wrote in it.”

I turned the first page and there, beneath the title, was written, To Ting, who doesn’t understand forever and will have to learn with me. Love Always, Chet. I would find out what he meant by this later. “Chet, I don’t know what I find more amazing, that you stole the book or that you went to the library.”

“I was going to buy it,” said Chet. “But when I tried to get it on Amazon, it was going to take two months.” There was a pause. “It’s a good book, about your thing.”

“My thing?”

“Your work in progress,” said Chet somberly, catching himself. “But it’s the right book. Inchoy said you were reading all about this other guy and there was stuff online, but this has an essay that you need.”

“I should have known Inchoy was involved.”

“Ting, I needed his help.” There was another pause. “Sometimes you think that I don’t respect your work, and the truth is I don’t understand it. I don’t. But I understand you and that is what’s important.”

I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Aren’t you going to thank me?” asked Chet. Now he was teasing me.

“It’s stolen.”

“I’ll make a donation to the library.”

I flipped to the table of contents and saw that a chapter was focused on Igorot villages and expositions. The essay was, indeed, all about Schneidewind’s background, something that I had been unable to dig up elsewhere.