Now I am no longer on the trawler, I am at the port of Songkhla and I tell whoever pays me for the rotti what I saw on that boat that was called San Pedro Sea, but back then I was on it, and I was nineteen, and I cooked from four until midnight, and Sam came from the Philippines, from Cebu, and slept in the bunk below mine, and when he had come aboard he had handed his passport to the captain and the captain had locked the drawer in front of everyone and no one had said anything, because whoever boards without saying anything never gets off. And Sam had a debt of sixty thousand baht to the agency that had brought him, and he had been working for fourteen months, and he had eight left, and he counted the months on his fingers every Sunday morning. And that morning at the end of May he had gone to the captain and asked for his passport back.

And I was in the galley drawing up the water for the midday soup and I heard Sam's voice coming out of the wheelhouse and Sam was saying that he wanted his papers and the captain was saying that it wasn't the time and Sam was saying that the time was now, that he had to pass the Thai coast guard inspection, and the captain was saying that the papers were in Bangkok and Sam was saying they were not in Bangkok but in the drawer and the captain said nothing. Nothing. And I went on cutting the garlic and the garlic stuck to the blade and I cut my thumb and I said nothing. And Sam came out of the wheelhouse with a white face and no one went to see how he was. And I served lunch. And Sam did not sit down. And the captain sat down and ate two helpings. And my helping I skipped. I wasn't hungry. What I had understood instead was that my thumb was bleeding more than expected and I bound it with a rag. And that evening Sam did not come to dinner. And I took the big ladle.

And so I took the big ladle and lowered it twice into the pot and put into Sam's bowl the soup with the pieces of fish at the bottom, because whoever pours first takes the bottom and the pieces lie at the bottom, and I covered it with the small lid and took the bowl in both hands and carried it below deck, because Sam had not come to eat and because whoever does not work does not eat and whoever does not eat does not come back up. And I opened the cabin door with my elbow. And Sam was on the right side of the bunk with his eyes open. And I set the bowl on the shelf next to his head. I said nothing. Sam said nothing.

And I went back up to the galley and cleaned the big ladle and put it away and prepared the captain's helping and put in the big piece, the middle cut, and carried it to the wheelhouse. And the captain leaned over the bowl and looked and saw that there was enough fish and nodded. And I did not look. And I went back to the galley. And I washed the pot. And I cleaned the counter. And my father when I was little in Vũng Tàu used to tell me that whoever cooks must be the last to leave the table and now I understand that being last also means staying invisible. And the door of Sam's cabin stayed ajar all night and I did not go to close it. I should have closed it. I did not close it.