The humid Bangkok air clung to Mira like a second skin. She fanned herself with a straw-market menu, the ice in her Singha beer already a distant memory. Across the small table, her husband, Dan, was sweating through his polo shirt, valiantly trying to eat pad gra pao with chopsticks.

“How was it?” he asked.

“Just use the fork, honey,” she said, not for the first time.

The next morning, Leo waved at them from across the street as they waited for their taxi to the airport. Dan waved back. Mira smiled, then took her husband’s hand.