Bà’s and a man’s. Not Ông’s Brother. Definitely not Anh Minh. Not Dad’s. I wish. OMG, it’s our detective. I scramble out of the net, which is harder to do than you’d think, and run into the front room. He’s here, as leathery and wordy as ever. I’ve only marked four days off my Trip of Torment calendar. This man is a genius. I will be at the beach blocking HIM from Montana’s butt bow very soon, la la la. Then I look around. Wait, where’s the guard? I look at Bà with a desperate expression that surely conveys, “Where’s the guard?” but Bà just frowns. “Please forgive my granddaughter, she has not awakened enough to employ her manners,” Bà says to him. To me, “Your clothes?” As if her pajama-ish matching silk set looks that different from my real pajamas matching silk set. But I obviously do not possess the magical powers to tell loose day wear from loose night wear. I go change, returning in proper mosquito-bait capris. Bà shakes her head just the slightest bit.
