There was no mail delivery service in Laos. Letters were either sent to post office boxes or to a large poste restante sack, much of the contents of which would never be claimed. There were as many postal workers slitting open and censoring mail as there were selling stamps, and customers could never be sure of what subversive material their mail contained. Comrade Ging sold stamps. But on his breaks and after work he would don his helmet, wrap a homemade post office armband around his boney bicep, and deliver unopened mail to residents he knew would show their gratitude. Madam Daeng’s noodle shop was one such place.

“Do you have something for us?” Siri asked.

“I do.” Ging smiled, reached into his back sack, and pulled out a parcel the size and shape of an Omo washing powder packet. He nodded and handed it to Siri. “And with that, I’ll be on my way.”

Siri was tempted to let him go but he knew his wife would berate him for doing so. And it was nice to have mail delivered.

“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to join us for a meal,” said Siri.

“I . . . I don’t think I’ll have time.”

“Madam Daeng would be pleased if you could spare a few minutes.”

“Well, I . . . All right, then. To keep Madam Daeng happy,” said the man, walking triumphantly into the restaurant. He removed his helmet and found an empty stool. Mr. Geung welcomed him by name and Geung’s wife, Tukta, served him without asking what he wanted. In fact, after forty years in the postal service, all he really wanted was respect.

“What’s that?” Daeng asked her husband. She was bent over the noodle trough. The steam wafted around her like a dream sequence but she never seemed to work up a sweat.

“Parcel,” said Siri, heading for the stairs.

Daeng could have repeated her question but a simple eyebrow raise stopped him in his tracks.

“Feels like a book,” said Siri. “Heavy. Ging just dropped it off.”

“That’s very nice for you,” said Daeng, ladling out four bowls with the deftness of a conjurer. “But don’t you think our customers could use a bit of maître-d’ing?”

“Darling, your noodles sell themselves. They don’t need promoting.”

“After a day of dealing with bureaucracy our customers appreciate a little sympathy and a few laughs. We aren’t just a noodle shop. We’re a wellness agency and you are the doctor of compassion.”

“But I . . .”

“The book can wait.”