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balcony and the living room is open, and Bangkok’s March heat and the throat-scratching smell of burning cloth fill the room.
    “Miaow,” Rafferty says. She turns her face fractionally farther away from him. “Miaow, we have to talk.”
    “After,” Miaow says in English. She does not say it loudly, but her tone is final.
    The plastic bags hang heavy in his hands. “Fine. But not too much after, okay? Where’s Rose?”
    “Using all your soap,” Rose says in Thai, coming into the livingroom. “This boy has so much dirt on him I’m not sure there’s anyone underneath.” Her sleeves are rolled up, and soapsuds gleam on her dark arms. An archipelago of splash marks decorates the front of her shirt.
    “He doesn’t have a house ,” Miaow says fiercely to the fire. “How clean would you be if you had to wash yourself on the street and they chased you away all the time?”
    “We get the point,” Rafferty says. “Nobody meant that he—”
    “ I was dirty,” Miaow snaps. She still has not looked at them. In the rigidity of her back, Rafferty sees the fury of the powerless. She knows that the decision, whatever it is, will come from the adults.
    “And look how nicely you cleaned up,” he says as Rose rolls her eyes. “Here’s some special shampoo,” Rafferty says to Rose, pulling the bag open to show her a bottle of Kwell. “There’s some…ah, salve in there, too.”
    “For bugs, ” Miaow says disdainfully in Thai, without a glance. “As though bugs matter.”
    “Bugs do matter,” Rose says sharply.
    The words bring Miaow’s head around sharply. Rafferty is startled at the fury in her face. “What’s more important?” she demands. “Not having bugs or not letting people… play with you?”
    “We’re not fighting with you, Miaow,” Rose says.
    Miaow shrugs and folds herself into an even smaller knot, hunkering down over her knees. Sharp shoulder blades protrude on either side of her spine, curled back like stunted wings. The movements of her hand as she stirs the flames are short and jerky. Misery emanates from her like a fog. The sky darkens behind her, its lower edge torn jagged against the silhouettes of buildings as the night skyline of Bangkok blinks into being, rectangle by rectangle, one office block of lights at a time.
    “I bought him some new clothes,” Rafferty says helplessly. Female unhappiness is as mysterious to him as plant disease. He knows it when he sees it, but he has no idea what to do about it.
    Miaow sniffles, and Rafferty takes a step toward her, but Rose grabs his arm.
    “You’re being stupid,” Rose whispers in Thai. “She’s manipulating you.” She yanks at his arm, not gently. “In the kitchen.”
    He follows her, still lugging the plastic bags with their bottles of medicated shampoo and whatever else the lady at Siam Drugs foisted off on him. He drops them onto the counter, and Rose puts an exploratory hand on the bags and the other on her hip. “You’re both acting like children.”
    “One of us is a child, Rose.”
    “Not the way you mean. Miaow is short and she has a high voice, but she’s not anything you mean when you say ‘child.’ She can take care of herself better than you can.” Rose swipes her forehead with the back of a long brown forearm and leaves a lacy pattern of soapsuds in her hair. “You can’t let her act like a baby all of a sudden.”
    “So what am I supposed to do?” Rose’s eyes widen at the frustration in his voice. “Explain the laws of adoption to her? Maybe bring in a lawyer? Run a spreadsheet to show her how much the kid will cost? A pie chart to illustrate what I have in the bank? How exactly do you think I should deal with this, Rose?”
    Rose puts her fingertips against the front of his throat and begins a gentle downward smoothing motion, the Southeast Asian remedy for unseemly emotional displays. Thais take equanimity very seriously, and no one loses face faster than someone who gets angry. “You deal with