Bruce was still negotiating with the government for the return of his father’s property. In the meantime, he was staying at a guesthouse a few blocks walk away. They pointed him in the right direction and pushed. Civilai staggered to his lemon-colored Citroën. They were more concerned about his walking than his driving so nobody attempted to take the keys from him. He’d be alone on the road and the car barely hit forty kilometers an hour. Civilai, probably legally blind behind his Soviet shades, spent some time searching for the slot for the key, but, once engaged, the engine purred like that of a more impressive vehicle. He wound down the window.

“Little brother,” he called to Siri.

Siri walked to the car and Civilai handed him a wad of papers he’d retrieved from the glove box.

“I forgot,” he said. “I got the list. Here! Sixty-four journalists, one of whom is probably here for the sole purpose of killing you slowly and painfully and massacring the rest of us in the process. Their CVs, their blood types, their ages and all the way down to their favorite sandwiches. I’ve called in what few favors I have left to do background checks on them. I have hope we’ll find him before he starts slicing slivers of skin off—”

“We can all imagine how he’ll go about it,” said Siri. “But don’t you worry yourself. I have freedom-fighter Daeng and Ugly the Wonder Dog to protect me.”

Civilai grabbed Siri’s wrist.

“Siri,” he said.

“Yes?”

“My little brother.”

He didn’t let go.

“What?” said Siri.

“I love you.”

Even after three bottles of Bordeaux, there were some things men didn’t say to each other. Siri could see his own embarrassment reflected in the dark of the glasses. Still Civilai didn’t let go. It was as if he was waiting for Siri to say something meaningful back.

“Civilai,” said Siri.

The doctor could feel his heart throb.

“Yeah?”

“Let go of my wrist.”

“All right,” said Civilai, and with two coughs of exhaust from a rusty tailpipe, he was off.