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pedalling up and down to keep herself afloat. Her heart was beating furiously in her chest. She waited it out and the shark disappeared, fin dropping below the surface, and then the shadow was gone into the depths.
    She waited a while longer, and there was no sign of it. She swam for the shore, always thinking that it would come up from beneath her, jaws wide. When she made it to the shore, her brush with death had left her feeling more alive than ever before. The adrenaline and endorphins flooding through her body had left her almost euphoric.
    That was Miranda’s theory—that to stare death in the face and walk away alive gave you enlightenment. It re-affirmed your life and gave it meaning.
    I didn’t buy into that theory. Not at first.
    In Miranda I thought I’d found a kindred soul,another searcher. But that was all a lie. She was only ever searching for the next score. Without her, I felt the same way I’d felt so long ago when my mother remarried. Abandoned, worthless, left behind. Now I was alone in Vietnam, where she told me that she’d follow.
    But then I got to thinking that maybe she never showed up in Vietnam because the shark finally caught up with her.
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    Three bottles of wine later: Hayes lived in a large apartment on the north side. I didn’t ask how he could afford a place like that, and he made no mention of it. As he and Phoebe took a shower I paced back and forth, swaying drunkenly, my eyes glossing over the hundreds of framed photographs on the walls. Most of them were in black and white, some featuring Hayes with small Vietnamese children, others merely capturing landscapes or villages. I wondered if he had taken any of them himself.
    Phoebe emerged from the steaming bathroom wearing a towel and made a beeline for the kitchen.
    â€˜How long have you been in the country?’ she called over her shoulder.
    â€˜A few days,’ I answered.
    She opened the fridge and put a bottle of water to her lips, swallowing twice.
    â€˜I love it here,’ she told me, sighing. ‘I came here on vacation six years ago and never left.’
    I asked, ‘How often do you make it back home?’
    She raised an eyebrow, and I noticed how different her face seemed without glasses. ‘The States? Never. First time last week. Quick trip. I had some things to pick upover there.’ She seemed distracted and changed the subject. ‘Are you worried about your girlfriend? You haven’t tried to call her or anything.’
    â€˜I’ve got no number to call. And she wasn’t my girlfriend, just a travelling companion.’ Just somebody I thought I cared about. It’s easy to forget that caring about people only leads to trouble in the end, I told myself.
    She gave a shrug and said, ‘Whatever,’ pushed the fridge closed and went back to the bathroom, clutching her towel to her chest. ‘Got to dry my hair,’ she said with a wry smile. The door slammed, then there was silence.
    After a minute or so, Hayes emerged from the room, also wrapped in a towel. His hair was dripping, plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck. He held a syringe in one hand, and I frowned when I saw it. I thought ruefully that I might have fallen in with a pair of junkies.
    â€˜What’s this?’ I asked, nodding to the syringe.
    â€˜I am HIV-positive,’ Hayes explained, twirling the needle between his fingers. ‘My body produces dangerously low levels of testosterone. To counter this, I inject myself with an artificial testosterone gel.’ He waved the needle, which was filled with a golden substance.
    I found myself watching, dumbstruck, as Hayes suspended the needle over his bare thigh. He gave a sudden jab and the needle was in, pressed through the skin, and he injected the gel.
    â€˜Per decilitre of blood plasma, a man can have anywhere between three and eight hundred nanograms of testosterone,’ Hayes said with a grimace. He plucked