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panoramas and the underwater scenes were done. The next requirement of the article was a critical look at “an illegal shoreline settlement.” That meant a night spent at a squatters’ village, gathering a profile of life on the coast.
    She packed her equipment, cramming everything but the rebreather into her backpack. She would have to take it all with her. The balance of her fee would be forfeit if the diving equipment was not returned, and she did not trust Cameron to hold it.
    The captain’s face took on an expression of acute concentration as he worked his way past a final shore-guard of inner tubes, swimming children, and tiny canoes. The shore itself was a mudflat, slick and glistening and utterly bare of debris. As the boat approached, throngs of tiny, bright-eyed children spilled out of a shantytown built on poles above the high-water mark. Dressed in T-shirts and faded shorts, they ran back and forth at the water’s edge, leaving faint, wet impressions where their feet touched, their motion intense and intermittent, like sand crabs.
    As Ela prepared to leave the boat, she pretended a confidence she did not feel. She’d explored alone before and knew that strangers were usually welcomed by villagers as a potential source of money, food, information—even entertainment. Still, one could never be sure.
    She hefted her backpack onto her right shoulder, the dive pack onto her left. When the water was three feet deep, the captain threw a rope to some boys who had been working a small hand net. They held the boat, while Ela slipped over the side. She still wore the sleeveless vest of her wet suit, but she had pulled on a pair of shorts and a long-sleeve shirt to protect herself from the sun.
    She hesitated beside the boat, looking up at the captain, wondering if he would come back for her tomorrow. She had held on to part of his fee to ensure his return, but it was a minuscule sum. Not nearly enough to buy loyalty. “Tomorrow,” she muttered. Then she waded ashore onto land that had not existed a year ago.
    The muddy coast of the Mekong Delta fought a continuous battle with the sea. Each rainy season, alluvial deposits were laid down in the annual flood, extending the coastline by up to two hundred feet . . . until the rising sea crawled over the new land, chewing at it, filling the rivers with salt. Massive sea dikes guarded much of the coast, but nothing protected this strand. That had not stopped people from settling here. The ramshackle village boasted hundreds of homes, all built on poles above the steaming mud. Some had walls of black-plastic greenhouse cloth. Others had half-height rails of mismatched timber or broken pieces of old government signs. There wasn’t much point in building something more permanent, Ela decided as she walked between the shanties. At best, these people could stay there only through the dry season. When the Mekong flooded again, they would have to move on.
    Several older women stared at her as she went by. They refused to smile, or return her greeting. It was not an unusual reaction, given their age, and Ela refused to let herself become discouraged. After a few minutes she spotted a new mark: a young woman, sitting cross-legged on a platform, working at a snarled knot of fishing line while a little boy whispered in her ear. His furtive glance darted to Ela, then he slipped behind a crate. The young woman smiled.
    It was the best opening Ela had seen. “ Chào ,” she said, hurrying forward. Then she expended her full arsenal of Vietnamese. “ Tên tôi là Ela Suvanatat . Xin lôi , c ô t ên l à gì . ” What is your name?
    The woman returned Ela’s greeting, giving her name as Phuong. Her black hair was tied in a neat ponytail and she wore a double layer of faded T-shirts, the outer one short-sleeved, the inner one long. Her trousers were loose-cut, gray-black.
    Ela produced a wireless speaker from an outside pocket of her backpack. Then she tapped her fingers, directing