“Well, look at that,” said the authoritative voice. “Is the light out on the next floor?”

Arthit heard one pair of shoes go up three or four steps. “No,” said the younger voice. “It’s on.”

“Okay. You wait here. And take your damn gun out. You think you’re in line for dinner or something?”

“No, sir.”

“Don’t move, got it? If you hear something, you just stay here. Yell if you have to, but wait for me.”

“Fine.”

“And remember. He’s dangerous and he’s armed. Nobody’s going to get crazy if you shoot him.”

“But he’s-Do you really think-”

“Doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what I’ve been told.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door had closed, and Arthit had waited motionlessly for five or six minutes on the steps just above the third-floor landing until the older cop came back into the stairwell on the second floor and the two men began to climb. Shoes in hand, Arthit moved on flat feet, letting the noise below him drown out the sound of his own movement until he was at the padlocked door to the roof. He can go no farther.

It’s just a matter of time.

While the other two are still moving, he puts the bags at his feet, laying them down in slow motion so the plastic won’t crackle. On the second floor of apartments, the two cops go through the same routine, the younger one waiting in the stairwell while the older one goes into the hallway. As Arthit stands there, his back to the door to the roof, waiting for them to come, waiting for whatever will happen when they do, he realizes he feels nothing except an overpowering loneliness. For fourteen years Noi has been the first person he saw every morning, the person he held as he slept. The sound of her laughter was the world’s most beautiful music.

They were going to get old together.

She had put on lipstick for him. Before she sipped at the tea that she used to wash down the pills, she had put on the light pink lipstick he loved best. That morning, when she moved to his side of the breakfast table and rested her head on his shoulder, she had known it would be the last time.

Arthit finds he doesn’t care whether he lives or dies.

He waits, his body feeling as heavy and inert as stone, as they finish on the second floor and climb to the third. He can probably measure the rest of his life in minutes. The gun at his waist is sharp and hard against his stomach. He takes it out and looks at it for a second, then very slowly lays it down beside the bags. There’s no way he’s going to shoot a policeman.

The two cops climb the final steps to the third floor. Nothing remains between them and Arthit but a corner and a short flight of stairs. The door to the apartment hallway closes, and Arthit waits, his arms hanging down and slightly apart from his sides, his hands open and empty, with the palms facing outward.

Shoes scuff concrete. The younger cop comes around to the bottom of the stairs, his gun extended, and looks up.

Arthit stands there, waiting. He knows the young cop’s face, although he can’t put a name to it. They worked together on something, sometime.

For five or six very long seconds, the young patrolman stands perfectly still, staring up at Arthit. His eyes drop to the automatic on the floor and come up again to meet Arthit’s. Then, slowly, he transfers his gun from his left hand to his right. He works the free right hand into his trouser pocket, and Arthit follows the movement, expecting a throwdown gun or maybe a taser, but when the young cop’s hand comes out, it holds a fold of currency. He puts the gun barrel to his lips like a hushing finger and tosses the money underhand. The money transcribes a graceful arc and lands at Arthit’s feet. The young cop holds out his free hand, palm out-Wait there-then climbs three steps and turns his back to Arthit, listening.

After a couple of minutes, the door to the third floor opens, and the young cop makes a point of scraping his shoes against the concrete as he goes down the stairs and disappears around the corner. “Nothing up there except the door to the roof,” he says. “It’s padlocked from inside.”

“Okay,” says the older cop. “Maybe they’ve already got him down below.”

Arthit hears them descending. The moment he hears the street door swing shut, his legs fold beneath him and he finds himself sitting among the bags of clothes.

38

When the door opens, Miaow pushes around Rose and stops as though she’s walked into a window. Her eyes almost double in size as she sees Boo, and then-immediately-they jump to Da, and from Da to the baby in Boo’s lap. She says, “Ahhh, ahhhh.”

“Why are you down-” Rose starts to ask Poke, and then she sees Boo, too, and her smile fills her face. “Oh,” she says. “You’re here.”

“I-” Miaow says, and stops, her eyes moving back and forth. “I mean, you-”

“This is Da,” Boo says. “And the baby is named Peep.”

“Baby,” Miaow says, as though the word were in a brand-new language.

“Not mine,” Boo says. “Not really Da’s either.”

Rose says, “We should get upstairs, Poke. They were behind us when we came back. They’re going to expect to hear something.”

“Fine,” Rafferty says, heading for the door. “Coming, Miaow?”

Miaow gives him a look that could turn him to ash.

“Guess not,” Rafferty says. “We’ll pretend you’re pouting. For a change. Open the door quietly when you come in.” To Superman he says, “See you tomorrow.” The boy nods, but he’s looking at Miaow.

Rose says, “What’s all that stuff on your hand?”

“Tell you in the elevator,” he says. He closes the door behind them. In the hall he says, “And I have to tell you something else. About Noi.”

“WHAT HAPPENED TO your hair?” Boo says.

“I fixed it,” Miaow says. Her eyes go to Da again.

“I liked it better the other way.”

“Who cares?” Miaow says. Her fists are brown knots at her sides. “Who cares what you like? Where did you go? Where have you been? And who’s she?”

“I told you. She’s Da.”

“Who’s Da?”

Boo says, “Why don’t you ask Da?”

“I’m asking you.”

“He’s my friend,” Da says. “He got me away from some bad people.”

Miaow chews on the inside of her cheek for a moment. “How long have you known him?”

Da’s eyebrows contract. “How long?” she asks Boo.

“Couple of days.”

Da says, “It feels like a week.”

“What does he mean, it’s not your baby?” Miaow says. “What kind of bad people?” She abandons that line of questioning and turns her eyes to Boo. “Why did you go away?”

“I made a mistake. About Poke. I thought he was-you know, a bad guy.”

Miaow says, “Poke?”

“I was wrong. But I didn’t really go away, not at first. For a few months, I kept an eye on you. To make sure you were okay.”

“Did not,” Miaow says.

“I did.”

She gives him hard eyes. “I never saw you.”

“I was careful. And I had some other kids watch you from time to time.”

“If he wants to disappear,” Da says, “he just disappears.”

“I know that,” Miaow says. “I was with him for a long time. Not just two or three days, like you.”

“Miaow,” Boo says.

“He took care of me,” Miaow says, and suddenly she’s swiping at her cheeks with her forearm. “I was almost a baby, and he…he-” She breaks off, grabs air, and dives in again. “I thought…I thought you started again. Started the yaa baa, I mean. I thought you went away because you wanted that. More than you wanted anything. More than you wanted to-I don’t know-to stay with me. With us.”

“No,” Boo says. “I don’t use that now. Remember Hank Morrison?”

“Sure.” She scrubs her arm over her eyes as though she’s punishing them. Then she sniffles. “He helped Poke adopt me.”

“He got me into a monastery up north. The monks got me through it.”