There is no response, and she turns to Kep and sees him looking not at her but up at the windows on the second story of the building. There are faces there, looking down, watching everything that’s happened. Some are laughing. Others stare openmouthed, waiting for the resolution.

And Da knows, sure as a fist in the stomach, that she has failed.

Kep can’t lose this kind of face in front of the others. She no sooner realizes this than she feels his fingers dig into the muscles at the sides of her neck. “Don’t be in such a hurry,” he says. He squeezes hard enough for her knees to go weak. “We’ve just begun our talk. And you’re not going anywhere, you little bitch. I’ve got someplace special for you tonight.”

He knots her blouse in his hand and half drags her around the van and toward the front door. Da struggles, but she can only do so much without dropping Peep. Finally she grasps the child with one arm and reaches out and twists her fingers through Kep’s thick hair. She yanks hard enough to pull some of it out.

And he rounds on her, his face flaming, and hits her in the face with his closed fist. The blow snaps her head to the left, and her ankles tangle as she tries to step back to keep her balance, and she goes down, falling sideways to the left. It takes everything she has to land on her back, with Peep on top of her. The child is screaming. There is blood in Da’s mouth, salty and warm.

“You like to pull hair, huh?” Kep says. He is so furious that his eyes have practically disappeared. He knots his fingers into Da’s hair and hauls her to her feet. Then he drags her through the door and into the corridor and pushes her up against the wall on the left while he fishes in his pants pocket for something. When his hand comes out, it holds a jingling ring of keys. He chooses one and slips it into the lock on one of the doors that were closed the night Da first came into the building. He pulls the door wide, puts a hard, heavy hand on the back of Da’s neck, and shoves her through the door into the dim room. Then the door slams closed, and she stands there, swallowing blood and aching, the baby crying with all its being, in total darkness.

She hears the click of the lock.

28

This is silly,” Miaow says. She has been even crankier since Kosit saw her getting her hair dyed. The newly reddish hair, still slightly damp from the post-coloring shampoo, looks to Rafferty like a wig. He has to make a continuous effort not to stare at it.

He fights a surge of irritation. “I don’t care. Just do it. And don’t try to win an Oscar, okay? All you’re doing is talking to your mother.”

Miaow says what she’s supposed to say: “I’ve got a lot of homework.” Her tone is so flat she sounds like she’s reading.

Rafferty gets up from the green stool, which pinches him good-bye. He has to move around for a second or he’ll explode. When he has his breathing under control and all the little black spots have stopped swarming in front of his eyes, he says, “But not winning an Oscar doesn’t mean we’re going to act like we’re dead either. It just means we sound normal. We’re going to do this until I’m happy with it, if it takes until the sun comes up.” He looks at his watch. “It’s twenty past eleven, and even if we get all of it right the first time, it’s going to take us until one or two. It’s up to you, Miaow. Either you can help with this and get it over with, or you can sit here all night long.”

“Poke,” Rose says.

Rafferty holds up both hands. “We’re doing it, Rose. And that means Miaow’s doing it. As far as I’m concerned, we can all sleep on the floor down here, but we’re getting this done.”

“You don’t have to be a jerk about it,” Miaow says.

Miaow is on the wobbly chair in front of the pink blanket, and Rose is on the solid one. The tape recorder is on the battered coffee table. More than an hour ago, they all said good night to one another upstairs, and then Rafferty led them to the elevator and down to the fourth floor. Until the anger picked him up and towed him around the room, Rafferty was balanced on the stool. Now he goes to the table and sits on the threadbare carpet, in the least confrontational stance he can adopt.

“We’re in some trouble,” he says to her. “I don’t want to go into detail, but it’s about that book, okay? Just take my word that what we’re doing is important, that I wouldn’t be asking you to do it unless it was important. Do I often ask you to do things that aren’t important?”

“All the time,” Miaow says. “And I do them.”

“Then put yourself out there one more time and do this one for me, too. And then, someday, you can ask me to do something stupid, and when I don’t want to do it, you can remind me that I owe you one.”

Miaow says, “Promise?” This is her kind of currency.

“Absolutely. Here, in front of Rose and everything.” Without taking his eyes from hers, he pushes the “record” button, counts silently to three, and says, “I like the hair.”

“Really?” She puts both hands against it, palms down, and smooths it. “You’re not just trying to make me feel better? You don’t think it looks dumb? And fake?”

Rose says in Thai, “It’s not supposed to look real, Miaow, not any more than lipstick is. It’s stylish. And it catches the light well. Lots of highlights.”

“Honest? I mean, you really think so? Do you think the kids at school will, um…?”

“If they don’t like it,” Rafferty says, “it’ll just be because they’re envious.”

“Oh, come on,” Miaow says, but she looks happier than she has all night long.

Rose says, “It makes you look older.”

Miaow grabs the thought with both hands. “How much older?”

“Ten,” Rose says, and Miaow’s face falls. “Maybe eleven.”

“Eleven.” Miaow’s expression is deadly serious, and Rafferty suddenly realizes there are several conversations going on at the same time.

“Why is that important, Miaow?” he asks. “What’s so magical about eleven?”

“I, um…” She looks down at her lap. “I didn’t want to tell you this until I was pretty sure, you know? I didn’t want to be the kid who yelled…who yelled, uhhh…”

“Wolf?”

“Yeah. Wolf.” She still hasn’t looked up. “What’s a wolf?”

“It’s like a tiger, but not. Go ahead with the story.”

“Well, Mrs. Paris, that’s my teacher?” Her head comes up halfway, and her eyes go back and forth between Rafferty and Rose.

“We know Mrs. Paris,” Rose says.

Miaow finds a thread loose on the elastic waistband of her pajamas and picks at it, giving it all her attention. With her head down, she says, “Well, I’ve…um, I’ve been having some trouble in class.”

“Really.” Rose’s voice is cool. “What kind of trouble?”

“Just, you know.” Miaow wraps the thread around her index finger and tugs at it. “Uh, talking, writing notes to other kids, drawing a lot, making jokes when I shouldn’t. Going…um, going to sleep.”

Rafferty says, “Going to sleep?”

“Only twice.” Miaow lets go of the thread and holds up two fingers.

“But your grades,” Rose says. “Your grades are better than ever. They’re practically perfect.”

“That’s what Mrs. Paris says. She says-” Miaow grabs a breath. “She says I’m not paying attention in class because I’m ahead of the level. Because it’s too easy for me. Even though it’s fourth grade and I’ve only been in school three years.” She is wearing her bunny pajamas, looking all of five to Rafferty, although apparently this is not the time to point that out. “Anyway, about a week ago, she-Mrs. Paris-said she thought maybe I should skip up to fifth grade.”

Without thinking, Rafferty says, “You’re shitting me.” Rose’s glance hits the side of his face like a slap, and he amends it to, “I mean, that’s amazing.”

“But she wanted to talk about it first with the Dragon-sorry, Mrs. Satharap, the principal. And she did, and the Dragon said it was okay and that she was going to talk to you about it. That was yesterday? So she’ll probably call tomorrow. And, I mean, I’m really happy about it, but…but…”