I cocked my ear to the incessant hammering of the old patriarch next door, putting the finishing touches on his awning.

One long, bony finger rose trembling skyward. The sun would wither my skin and loosen my teeth, Fung said, and turn me into an even greater hag than I already was.

I flourished a tube of sunscreen and my wide, conical hat and cackled like the Wicked Witch of the West.

His hand sank back into the hammock. The heat, he croaked. It drove men wild and made them do unsightly things, such as he would not even speak of with me.

I promised to protect him with my life from the trespasses of murderers and rapists, if he would just get out of bed.

Without further ado he rolled over and went to sleep, and when I tried to leave without him I found that he had locked my shoes and cameras in the bureau and hidden away the key.