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smiled.
    Khun Suphit’s broad back paused in the doorway, obscuring for a moment the scene that awaited them. Then he stepped backward and to his right, revealing a solid middle-aged American man who was standing with his hand on his hips, blocking their entrance. He had sandy hair and high cheekbones like a woodcarving, and probably would have been very handsome once. Behind him was the woman Kate, sitting in a wheelchair next to her bed, with a hopeful smile and bright green eyes. Despite the bandages that encircled her head and partially hid her blond hair, you could tell that she was beautiful. This Andrew Fuller had been—for a short time at least—a very lucky man.
    Then Ladarat’s attention was jostled by a flicker of movement off to her right, and she glanced beyond the man who was blocking their way. Thin and pale, with red hair and a tentative smile, a woman rose from her place on the sofa to greet them with a deep wai , in the correct order, first to the director and then to her. Khun Suphit was nonplussed for a second—a first for him, no doubt. But he returned the American’s wai , then turned to the man, and finally to the girl on the bed. The girl smiled uncomfortably, and the man simply nodded.
    Well.
    The three Americans looked expectantly at the director, and it wasn’t until he took another step backward and to the side, looking directly at Ladarat, that she remembered that she was to do the talking. That recollection didn’t feel very good.
    “This,” she announced an uncertain voice, “is Dr. Suphit Jainukul. He is the director of the ICU. He is responsible for the oversight of Mr. Fuller’s care.”
    “Are you a doctor?” This from the man.
    The director turned to her, with a tentative smile, pretending that he didn’t speak English. Oh, so very clever. She smiled, too, contemplating revenge.
    “Yes, Dr. Jainukul is a doctor. He is a pulmonary physician. And my name is Ladarat Patalung; I am a nurse.” Mentioning that she was the ethicist for the hospital would only confuse things.
    “You speak English very well,” the woman said, peering around her husband’s shoulder.
    “Thank you. I had the good fortune to spend a year at the University of Chicago studying. And this is why,” she continued, “Dr. Jainukul asked me to join you for this conversation as a translator. That,” she said somewhat unnecessarily, “is my role.”
    If the director followed this, he gave no sign. Instead he had assumed a pleasant yet vacant expression of superficial interest. This was his defense mechanism, she knew. Whatever happened, and whatever the Americans said, he would smile his distracted smile, trying very hard to think of the gardening he would do this weekend.
    No wonder Thailand has never been in a serious war. We are allergic to conflict, whereas Americans seemed hardwired to seek it out. The man, for instance, was staring at them with a strange intensity. And—what was truly odd—he still hadn’t moved aside to let them pass. It would be awkward indeed to get into the room unless he gave way. But the women were nodding and smiling hopefully, waiting for some good news.
    Then the man surprised them all. “I’m going out for a smoke. You all just talk about… whatever you need to talk about.”
    And before Ladarat could explain that he needed to be here—that they needed him to be here—he slipped between her and the director with a grace that was surprising for a man of his size.
    There was an uneasy moment as the four of them who remained looked at one another. Then his wife broke the silence with an awkward shrug and a smile. She sheepishly held up a pack of Marlboro Lights, whose red was anemic and washed out. Knockoffs from China or Cambodia probably. “He left these here. I think… I think maybe he’s just not ready to talk.”
    She smiled again, weakly. If she were Thai, this would be the same yim soo smile that the young nurse had displayed just a few minutes ago. The smile