Bruce, as pleased as a papaya slice, unzipped the cloth bag and produced a clunky mechanical gadget that opened up to look like some science-fiction typewriter. It had a screen like a small television and a keyboard and other knobs and levers that gave the impression it could take off and fly.

“It’s called a word processor,” said Bruce. “Wordstar—just came out a couple of years ago, but it was already hot in the stores as I was leaving Sydney. The tech boys at UTS put together a Lao script version. You make all your mistakes in the screen here, correct them and print it out at the back. I took the liberty of retyping your script using a screenplay format. I can change it as we go along.”

“Siri, you’re dribbling,” said Daeng.

“It’s marvelous,” said Siri. “Right, Daeng?”

Daeng wasn’t nearly as excited. She was too focused on the letter in her apron pocket. Her instincts were tingling. Her tail was twitching. The two notes might have been the work of a crank—some dark practical joker—but she hadn’t stayed alive this long by being complacent. If someone had gone to the trouble of contacting and threatening them, he was a troubled soul and anything was possible. Leaving Siri to drool over his new toy, she took Bruce to a table near the road and made him a coffee.

“Bruce,” she said, “I was hoping you might take a look at something for me.”

She handed him the letter and leaned back on her chair. He read it, looked up, then read it again.

“What is this, Auntie?” he said.

“One of the journalists was asking if he could help with the script. This is a sort of screen test. We want to know if we can use his idea in our film. Of course, we’d have to translate it, but . . . just see what you think.”

The boy read through it again silently to be met by a smile from Daeng.

“I don’t believe you,” he said.

“Which part?” she asked.

“Any of it. This looks like the real thing to me. Am I wrong?”

“Perhaps you can translate it for me?” she asked.

He huffed and nodded his head.