A monk in saffron walked past. Didn’t look at me. Didn’t need to. He knew: some people aren’t lost. They’re just cargo.
“Copy,” I said. “En route.”
The tuk tuk’s engine coughed a blue cloud into the Bangkok dawn. Two farang—wasted, grinning, lost—spilled onto the cracked sidewalk. They clutched phone poles like ship masts. The driver, a ghost in a grease-stained vest, held out a palm. Not for payment. For forgiveness. Tuk Tuk Patrol Pickup 13-14 -Globe Twatters- -2...
I flicked the butt into the gutter. Shifted into gear. Dispatch crackled: “Pickup 13-14, Khao San Road. Two Germans. One is bleeding from the ear.” A monk in saffron walked past
I lit a cigarette. Watched them stumble into a 7-Eleven to buy Chang and phone chargers. Tomorrow they’d fly home to Leeds or Melbourne or Ohio. They’d tell a story about adventure. I’d still be here, engine idling, waiting for the next load of ghosts. He knew: some people aren’t lost