Jack celebrated alone, chasing a line of boilermakers at the Golden Star. When he'd had enough, he returned to the park. He'd finally tracked down Ali Por to the free clinic at the Old Age Center. She was strapped to a gurney and connected to an intravenous line, dehydrated and delirious. The nurse said she'd been there almost a week and that, although the fever was breaking, nothing the old woman said made any sense.
Jack reached out from his alcoholic haze and placed the bak baan, mahjong tile, in her veiny clutch.
Ali Por rolled her eyes at him, called him jai, son, and passed the tile from palm to palm. She said what sounded to Jack like panda sun, diamond sky, wind of salt water, and began to tremble.
The nurse took the tile, returned it to Jack, and told him to leave as Ali Por lapsed into unconsciousness.
In the street, Jack repeated Ah Por's phrases but could not squeeze any clarity from them. He wandered down Mott Street, spinning from the boilermakers, clueless.