can practically see him adding a thousand baht to the price. “If you want.”
“Whoever sold this didn’t take his SIM card?”
There’s a tiny glimmer of humor in the Sikh’s eyes. “Maybe he forget.”
“It’s got all his stuff on it,” Andrew says, finger-dancing on the screen. “His phone numbers, his apps, his pictures. Why would he forget it?”
“Pipple,” the Sikh says with a shrug. “Everybody different.”
“Maybe he stole it,” Andrew says severely.
“Maybe,” the Sikh says. The dazzling smile again. “Maybe all of these stolen.” He looks at the two of them and makes a decision. “You want cold water?”
“Thank you,” Miaow says. The man goes to the rear of the shop area again and comes back with a thermos and a stack of paper cups. “Nobody use before,” he says, separating the cups into uneven stacks and taking two from the middle. “Very clean.”
Andrew puts down the phone and tries to look at it indifferently. He says, “I can pay you—”
Miaow shoulders him aside. “Five thousand baht.”
The Indian laughs, although it doesn’t disturb the precision of his pour. “You making joke,” he says. “My femily. My femily, they eat and eat.”
Miaow picks up a cup and drains the cool water. Then she says, “Show him, Andrew.”
Andrew moves the phone aside and then, as though to make it clear he’s not being sneaky, hands it to the Sikh. He pulls his wallet from his backpack, peels the red rubber band off it, and opens it. The Sikh cranes for a look, and Miaow steps on Andrew’s foot and tries to put a hand over the wallet, but he ignores her and fans the entire wad of currency. “Sixty-three hundred,” he says proudly. He glances at Miaow, and a crafty look comes over hisface. She wants to kick him. “But we need to eat,” he says. “We need a taxi.”
“We have more than one pocket,” the Sikh says.
Between her teeth, Miaow makes a noise like frying bacon.
“That’s it,” Andrew says. He turns his trouser pockets inside out. “I haven’t got any—”
“Ahh, well,” the Sikh says. “I put back.”
“I have three thousand,” Miaow says.
“And you keep,” the Sikh says. He breathes on the phone and polishes it. “This phone, fourteen thousand eight hundred.”
“I have three thousand,” Miaow says.
She gets an expressive Sikh shrug. “Come on,” she says to Andrew. “We’ll get the other one.”
Andrew starts to say something but Miaow gives him a look that backs him up a full step.
“Other one where?” the Sikh man asks.
“Not a member of your femily,” Miaow says. She grabs the sleeve of Andrew’s T-shirt and jerks.
The Sikh tilts the phone so it catches the light. “Fourteen thousand.”
“Twelve thousand, five hundred and that’s it,” Miaow says. It’ll mean she has to spend most of her secret seven-thousand, five hundred-baht stash, the money she always carries, tightly folded, in her rear pocket in case she finds herself abandoned on the street again. She gives one more tug, and this time Andrew comes with her, so suddenly she feels like she should hear a cork pop. Over her shoulder she says to the Sikh, “Up to you.”
The Sikh says, closing the deal, “Twelve-five.”
Andrew, confused, says, “How did we get to twelve-five?”
T HE TAXI IS dirty and full of exhaust. Miaow is getting carsick. She and Andrew had to bargain their way down a line of cabs to find one that would take them to school for the amount of money Miaow is willing to pay, so they’re enduring what she thinks mustbe the filthiest, stinkiest taxi in Bangkok, with an actual hole in the floor and exhaust fumes floating through it, like incense with a grudge.
“This is kind of creepy,” Andrew says for the third time. He’s apparently indifferent to both the taxi and Miaow’s reaction to it, his eyes on the screen and his finger doing close-up magic with the icons.
“I can’t look.” She fans herself with her hand. “If I look,
“Whoever sold this didn’t take his SIM card?”
There’s a tiny glimmer of humor in the Sikh’s eyes. “Maybe he forget.”
“It’s got all his stuff on it,” Andrew says, finger-dancing on the screen. “His phone numbers, his apps, his pictures. Why would he forget it?”
“Pipple,” the Sikh says with a shrug. “Everybody different.”
“Maybe he stole it,” Andrew says severely.
“Maybe,” the Sikh says. The dazzling smile again. “Maybe all of these stolen.” He looks at the two of them and makes a decision. “You want cold water?”
“Thank you,” Miaow says. The man goes to the rear of the shop area again and comes back with a thermos and a stack of paper cups. “Nobody use before,” he says, separating the cups into uneven stacks and taking two from the middle. “Very clean.”
Andrew puts down the phone and tries to look at it indifferently. He says, “I can pay you—”
Miaow shoulders him aside. “Five thousand baht.”
The Indian laughs, although it doesn’t disturb the precision of his pour. “You making joke,” he says. “My femily. My femily, they eat and eat.”
Miaow picks up a cup and drains the cool water. Then she says, “Show him, Andrew.”
Andrew moves the phone aside and then, as though to make it clear he’s not being sneaky, hands it to the Sikh. He pulls his wallet from his backpack, peels the red rubber band off it, and opens it. The Sikh cranes for a look, and Miaow steps on Andrew’s foot and tries to put a hand over the wallet, but he ignores her and fans the entire wad of currency. “Sixty-three hundred,” he says proudly. He glances at Miaow, and a crafty look comes over hisface. She wants to kick him. “But we need to eat,” he says. “We need a taxi.”
“We have more than one pocket,” the Sikh says.
Between her teeth, Miaow makes a noise like frying bacon.
“That’s it,” Andrew says. He turns his trouser pockets inside out. “I haven’t got any—”
“Ahh, well,” the Sikh says. “I put back.”
“I have three thousand,” Miaow says.
“And you keep,” the Sikh says. He breathes on the phone and polishes it. “This phone, fourteen thousand eight hundred.”
“I have three thousand,” Miaow says.
She gets an expressive Sikh shrug. “Come on,” she says to Andrew. “We’ll get the other one.”
Andrew starts to say something but Miaow gives him a look that backs him up a full step.
“Other one where?” the Sikh man asks.
“Not a member of your femily,” Miaow says. She grabs the sleeve of Andrew’s T-shirt and jerks.
The Sikh tilts the phone so it catches the light. “Fourteen thousand.”
“Twelve thousand, five hundred and that’s it,” Miaow says. It’ll mean she has to spend most of her secret seven-thousand, five hundred-baht stash, the money she always carries, tightly folded, in her rear pocket in case she finds herself abandoned on the street again. She gives one more tug, and this time Andrew comes with her, so suddenly she feels like she should hear a cork pop. Over her shoulder she says to the Sikh, “Up to you.”
The Sikh says, closing the deal, “Twelve-five.”
Andrew, confused, says, “How did we get to twelve-five?”
T HE TAXI IS dirty and full of exhaust. Miaow is getting carsick. She and Andrew had to bargain their way down a line of cabs to find one that would take them to school for the amount of money Miaow is willing to pay, so they’re enduring what she thinks mustbe the filthiest, stinkiest taxi in Bangkok, with an actual hole in the floor and exhaust fumes floating through it, like incense with a grudge.
“This is kind of creepy,” Andrew says for the third time. He’s apparently indifferent to both the taxi and Miaow’s reaction to it, his eyes on the screen and his finger doing close-up magic with the icons.
“I can’t look.” She fans herself with her hand. “If I look,
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