The two girls sit there, still as a painting, wrapped in the chirping and thrumming from the creek bed. At last Kwan says, over the noise, “Before you say anything else, I want an answer to my question.” Nana pulls out another cigarette, raises it halfway to her lips, and says, “You’ve asked a lot of questions.” With a practiced flick of the wrist, she lights it, taking the first drag in a businesslike fashion this time, no fancy inhaling techniques. She blows smoke and leans back slightly, and the movement tugs the blanket off Kwan’s shoulder. “Why I should believe you. And . . . and how you know. About my father. About the sixty thousand baht.” “When I got off the train,” Nana says, “somebody was there, somebody who probably knew I was coming. Not from this village, and you don’t know her. But she told me not to try to take you with me.” Kwan says, “Because . . .” “Because these people talk to each other, and somebody, most likely someone from my bar, told somebody else I was coming up here.
