"You look like an Apsara ," Mali whispered, referring to the celestial dancers of myth.

The first light of dawn in Pattaya didn’t come with a soft glow; it arrived as a sharp, humid heat that clung to the skin like a second layer. Mali adjusted the strap of her sundress, her heels clicking rhythmically against the pavement as she walked toward the beach. The night shift at the cabaret had been long, filled with the usual whirlwind of sequins, feathers, and the heavy scent of hairspray. But now, the noise was behind her.

They spent the morning walking through the local markets, where the air was thick with the smell of grilled pork and fresh jasmine. Mali continued to snap pictures: Emmy laughing with a fruit vendor she had known for years; the three of them sharing a bowl of spicy papaya salad on a plastic table; the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves of a banyan tree to dapple their skin.

"Did you get the photo?" Emmy asked, nudging Mali and pointing to the professional camera slung over her shoulder.