And yet… a whole tribe of New People, huddled in the jungle? What would it be like to hold an eight-foot laborer in her arms? Would that be her lover? Or one of the tentacle monsters of Gendo-sama's factories, ten arms like a Hindu god and a drooling mouth that demands nothing but food and a place to put its hands? How can such a creature make its way north? Why are they there, in the jungle?

She forces back her revulsion. It is surely no worse than Kannika. She has been enslaved to think against New People, even when she herself is one of them. If she thinks logically, she knows that no New Person can be any worse than the client last night, who fucked her and then spat on her before he left. Surely, to lie with a smooth-skinned New Person could not be worse.

But what kind of life could it be in the village? Eating cockroaches and ants and whatever leaves haven't succumbed to ivory beetle?

Raleigh is a survivor. Are you?

She stirs her noodles with her four-inch RedStar bamboo chopsticks. What would it be like, to serve no one? Would she dare? It makes her dizzy, almost giddy to think of it. What would she do without a patron? Would she then become a farmer? Perhaps grow opium in the hills? Smoke a silver pipe and blacken her teeth as she has heard some of those strange hilltribe ladies do? She laughs to herself. Can she imagine it?

Lost in her thoughts, she nearly misses it. Only luck-the chance movement of a man at the table across from her, his startled glance and then the duck of his head as he buries his attention in his food-saves her. She freezes.

The night market has fallen silent.

And then, like hungry ghosts, the men in white appear behind her, talking in their quick song-song to the woman at the wok. The woman bustles to serve, obsequious. Emiko trembles before them, noodles halfway between mouth and lips, her slender arm suddenly shaking under the strain. She wants to put the chopsticks down, but there is nothing to do. No way to hide herself if she moves, and so she sits frozen while the men speak behind her, looming over her as they wait.

"… finally overstepped himself. I heard Bhirombhakdi was screaming up and down the offices saying he was going to get his head. 'Jaidee's head on a platter, he's gone too far!'"

"He gave 5000 baht to his men, every one of them, for the raid."

"A lot of good it does them now that he's been stripped."

"Still, five thousand, no wonder Bhirombhakdi was spitting blood. It must have been half a million that he lost."

"And Jaidee just charged in like a megodont. The old man probably thought Jaidee was Torapee the bull, measuring his father's footprint. Looking to take him down."

"Not anymore."

Emiko trembles as they jostle her. This is the end. She will drop the chopsticks and they will see the windup girl, as they haven't seen her yet though they cluster around her, though they bump against her with a self-confident maleness, though one white shirt's hand is touching her neck as though accidentally pressed there by the jostle of others. Suddenly she will no longer be invisible. She will appear before them, fully formed, a New Person with nothing but expired papers and import licenses and then she will be mulched, recycled as quickly as they compost dung and cellulose, thanks to the telltale twitching movements that mark her as clearly as if she were painted in the excreta of glowworms.

"I never thought I'd see him khrab before Akkarat, though. That was a bad thing. We all lose face with that."

There is a pause. Then one of them says, "Auntie. It looks like your methane is the wrong color."

The woman grins uncomfortably. Her daughter's smile mirrors the uncertainty. "We made a gift to the Ministry last week," she says.

The man who has his hand on Emiko's neck speaks, caressing her idly. She tries not to shiver under his touch. "Then perhaps we were told wrong."

The woman's smile falters. "Perhaps my memory is bad."

"Well, I'm happy to check the state of your accounts."

She keeps the smile on her face. "No need to trouble yourself. I'll send my daughter, now. In the meantime, why not just take these two fish for yourselves? You don't get paid enough to eat well." She pulls two large tilapia off her grill and offers them to the men.

"That's very kind of you, auntie. I am hungry." With the banana-leaf wrapped plaa tucked in their hands, the white shirts turn away and continue their journey through the night market, seemingly unaware of the terror they spread before them.

The woman's smile fades as soon as they're gone. She turns to her daughter and pushes baht into her hands. "Go down to the police box and make sure that Sergeant Siriporn is the one you give the money to. I don't want those two coming back."

The touch of the white shirt burns on the back of Emiko's neck. Too close. Too close by far. Strange how she sometimes forgets that she is hunted. Sometimes fools herself and thinks she is almost human. Emiko shovels the last of her noodles into her mouth. She cannot delay anymore. She must face Raleigh.

"I wish to leave this place."

Raleigh turns on his barstool, expression bemused. "Really, Emiko?" He smiles. "You have a new patron, do you?"

Around them, the other girls are arriving, chattering and laughing with one another, making wais to the spirit house, a few of them making little offerings in hopes of encouraging a kind customer or rich patron.

Emiko shakes her head. "Not a new patron. I wish to go north. To the villages where New People live."

"Who told you about that?"

"It exists, yes?" From his expression she knows that it does. Her heart starts to pound. It's not just a rumor. "It exists," she says more firmly.

He gives her an appraising look. "It might." He signals Daeng the bartender for another drink. "But I should warn you, it's a hard life out there in the jungle. You eat bugs to survive if your crops fail. Not much to hunt, not after blister rust and Nippon genehack weevil killed so much fodder." He shrugs. "A few birds." He looks at her again. "You should stay closer to the water. You'll overheat out there. Take it from me. It's damn hard living. You should look for a new patron, if you really want to get out of here."

"The white shirts almost caught me today. I will die here, if I stay."

"I pay them not to catch you."

"No. I was at a night market-"

"What the hell were you doing at a night market? You want something to eat, you come here." Raleigh scowls.

"I am so sorry. I must go. Raleigh-san, you have influence. People you can influence to help me get travel permits. To allow me to pass the checkpoints."

Raleigh's drink arrives. He takes a sip. The old man is like a crow, all death and putrescence sitting on his barstool, watching his whores arrive for their night's work. He looks her over with barely masked disgust, as if she is a piece of dog shit stuck to his shoe. He takes another drink. "It's a hard road north. Damn expensive."

"I can earn my passage."

Raleigh doesn't respond. The bartender finishes polishing the bar. He and an assistant set out a chest of ice from the luxury manufacturer Jai Yen, Nam Yen. Cool Heart, Cool Water.

Raleigh holds out his glass and Daeng drops a pair of cubes in with a tinkling report. Out of the insulated chest, they start to melt in the heat. Emiko watches the ice cubes sag into liquid. Daeng pours water over the cubes. She is burning up, herself. The club's open windows do nothing to catch the breeze and at this early hour the swelter inside the building is still overwhelming. None of the yellow card fan men have arrived yet, either. The club radiates heat from walls and floor, encasing them. Raleigh takes a swallow of his cool water.