Tito Iñigo, like most dogs, was happy outside. He enthusiastically urinated on a plant and on the tire of my aunt’s car and then began trotting down the drive to find more places to empty himself, intrigued by the praise each time he lifted his leg. I followed, lit cigarette in hand. Laird must have been writing something for someone, but why would the Philippine Telegraph send him to Zamboanga when they had a slew of seasoned journalists who spoke English, Tagalog, and the difficult-to-master Chavacano—a Spanish creole wrestled into its own language through the mangle of Cebuano—as well as Cebuano itself? Zamboanga was the largest city in the Muslim-dominated part of Mindanao, but Davao was the largest city on the island. Zamboanga had a branch of the Jesuit university, Ateneo, and for a time—roughly five years—my tito Ben had lived there. Famously, no one in my family had visited him. Because people did not travel to that area.

The wealthy Muslims and Catholics in the Bangsamoro had learned to get along but were now plagued by terrorist groups. The ISIS-affiliated Abu Sayyaf was the most violent of these. Their recent attempt to establish a califate in the city of Marawi had resulted in the five-month siege that eventually routed the attempt but also ground the city into rubble. All of Mindanao was now under martial law.

Over twenty journalists, Filipino and foreign, as well as a slew of missionaries, bird-watchers, tourists, and one unfortunate Malaysian gecko trader had been kidnapped by Abu Sayyaf in the past two decades. When Abu Sayyaf’s demands for ransom were not met—and on occasion when they were—they beheaded people.

Laird must have known all this and more. What had happened to him? He was not my responsibility, but as I cast an eye to the top of the stairs where my tita Rosa was standing, looking out across her domain—the driveway, the fountain, the stand of orchids, and then me, I knew it was my American self that had stated that: in the Philippines, everyone was responsible for everyone else.

I started with Inchoy, but he did not pick up, so I sent him a text. Next, I tried Zackito, who was at that moment shopping for a debut gift for his niece at the Robinsons in Padre Faura. “I don’t know anyone at the Telegraph,” said Zackito. “But I remember at that party at Adriatico, your cousin was talking to José Martin, and even if he doesn’t know where your cousin is now, he’s the man to find out, especially in Mindanao.” Zackito had his number handy and sent it to me.

I left a message for José Martin and headed back up the stairs with Tito Iñigo in tow. Tita Rosa was back at her desk, looking despondently into the air before her.

“Well?” she said.

“I called a couple of people. Let’s see if they know.”