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sounded like a beat of a tom-tom drum. Apparently they were having a stomping party right now, at one-thirty in the morning. I fought back the only way I knew how. I lifted my stereo speakers to the top of my dresser, pointed them upwards and cued up a live recording of Joy Division covering “Sister Ray.” It was the loudest music file I had.
    I unbuttoned and peeled off my shirt, which was sweaty in the back and greasy in front. I was normally against wearing a collared shirt, but Nancy said I should look nice in case I was on television during the eating contest. I showered, snaked into a V-neck and light cotton slacks, and brushed my teeth as “Sister Ray” played on. The track was only about seven and a half minutes long, but I had it on repeat. I hoped my neighbors’ hollow floor acted like a subwoofer and throbbed like a bass cabinet under their feet.
    I was chuckling as I imagined their furniture jerking around from the sound waves when an insistent knock came at the front door. Oh, shit. I’d only ever blasted music at my neighbors, not confronted them in person. That would be rude. Taiwan is mostly a passive, non-confrontational place.
    More knocks.
    I had no idea what these neighbors looked like. Maybe it was a really big guy. Maybe he wanted to punch my lights out. I should take a weapon to the door, but something not too threatening, in case it was actually, say, an older woman. I grabbed my toothbrush in my right hand. It didn’t look very threatening, but I could poke an eye out with it, if I had to.
    My apartment door had a peephole that had been painted over on both ends.
    â€œWho is it?” I called out.
    â€œJing-nan?” I didn’t recognize the man’s voice. He didn’t sound big or angry.
    â€œYeah,” I said. “Are you complaining about the noise?”
    â€œWhat? No. Just open the door.” I could hear his fingernails tapping impatiently.
    â€œIt’s really late,” I said. “Who are you and what do you want?”
    â€œFuck this,” said the man. I heard something rattle in the lock. I dropped my toothbrush and grabbed at the chain lock. Before I could slide it into place the door swung open.
    I backed up as two men intruded. The guy in front was of a medium build, about the same size as me. He wasn’t happy. The man behind him stood at about six feet three, his muscles spread out over his large frame like the multiple trunks of a banyan tree. The big man had a dull look in his eyes that said, “I would lose zero sleep over your death from prolonged violence.”
    â€œJing-nan,” said the man who was my size. “Your uncle sent us, so there’s nothing to worry about. Call me Whistle. This is Gao.” His teeth were stained red from chewing betel nut. A ring of keys and lock picks danced around his hairy knuckles.
    Contrary to what he said, I became even more apprehensive at the mention of my uncle. “My no-good brother,” as my father used to refer to him. I hadn’t seen him in maybe fifteen years. He had the Chen family habit of accumulating debts. He partially paid them off and then, after a brief cancer scare, he skipped town. There were rumors that he had established himself on a remote island in the Philippines, doing who knew what.
    Whistle lifted an open hand to me. “Jing-nan, we have to go,” he said.
    â€œGonna use the can,” grunted Gao as he pushed his way past me.
    â€œWhere are we going?” I asked Whistle.
    â€œWe’re taking you to your uncle,” he said, surprised that I wasn’t able to figure that out. “He has to talk to you.”
    â€œWhere is he?”
    â€œTaichung City!” said Whistle, surprised that I hadn’t known that, either. Taichung, true to its name, “central Taiwan,” is located above the center of the island, to the southwest from Taipei. It’s about a two-hour drive.
    â€œCouldn’t I talk to