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     The first I saw Vangie was in a snapshot that her cousin held out for me. She sat on a low stone wall and smiled without showing teeth. Slim fingers pulled at the hem of her dress. Beside her a man perched on the wall with his arm around her shoulders, grinning loosely, his shirt unbuttoned halfway to the waist.

     She was about twenty-five, the man maybe thirty. Her eyes were dark and wary, and they seemed to belong to someone much older. Those eyes, I knew she had secrets and they were not small.

     “This is the last photograph of Lito, one week before he died,” said Preciosa Sanchez. The plush vowels, rounded consonants of a Filipino accent.

     “How do I know this is him?” I said.

     “This is my brother, this is Lito.”

     “You tell me so. ‘This is my brother, a week before he died.’ But I don't really know it. I don't know any of it for sure.”

     “I wouldn't lie to you. Why would I do that, show you a picture of somebody else and tell you it was my dear brother?”

     “You'd be surprised, what people will lie about.”

     “I'm swearing to you, I swear before God, this is my brother Lito.”