The ride was probably going to be two hours long and I began planning for civil, subject-based conversation, naps, and general contented smiling out the window. We were barely down the drive when I became aware of Miggie’s intense scrutiny of the right side of my face.

“Tita Ting,” she said. “Is Tito Chet your boyfriend?”

“No. Tito Chet is not my boyfriend. I’m married to your uncle Bob.”

“Where is he?”

“Your uncle Bob is in the States.”

“Why? What’s he doing?”

Miggie didn’t know her “Uncle Bob” but had probably heard a lot about him in the last few weeks, although none of it from me. “Well, it’s ten thirty here, and with the time difference, I think he’s probably going to bed.” Just talking about my husband was giving me a wave of panic, this inflamed by our recent conversation.

Tita Dom began scrambling through her purse and produced her phone. She quickly pulled up Candy Crush and handed the phone to Miggie. Miggie gave me a look of unmistakable dissatisfaction but was, thankfully, unable to resist the phone.

“So, Laird,” I asked, “what have you been up to?” What I really wanted to know was when we would be relieved of his presence in Manila but thought I should save that for later in the journey.

He sat with the question for several seconds before finally answering, “Not much. Seeing the sights.”

“Oh,” said Tita Dom, grabbing the soft lob for her own, “what sights?”

“I went to Fort Santiago,” he said. “I had never been to Intramuros.”

“I haven’t been there in a while,” said Tita Dom. And then to me: “Ting, we should go.” She adjusted Miggie in her lap. “You know, that’s where the family lived. All my brothers and sisters, before the war.”

“And you?” asked Laird.

“Well, I was born there, but I don’t remember. My siblings were sent to the provinces, where it was safer, but I was just a baby, so I stayed with my parents. And one brother also stayed, in the city.”

The story was about to get very dark and I thought­—­selfishly­—­that at least this would create, after its telling, a situation conducive to silence.

“You actually lived in the Walled City, in Manila? I thought you were . . .” Here he struggled to find a word. I heard attempts flicker through his head: farmers, plantation owners, feudal lords. “People who ran farms,” he finally said.

“Yes,” said Tita Dom. “But we lived in the city. My father was a doctor, but he really didn’t have a calling to it. He became a doctor because his mother wanted him to. He worked for Parke-Davis, as a representative. We had a nice house. But then the Japanese invaded, and things in Intramuros got very dicey.”