“Let’s go to market,” Kun Pa announced one morning when the rain had broken. He had loaded the samlaw with a tall stack of fishing baskets. The fishing baskets would bring more money at the tourist market than if he sold them to the men of the village. The baskets would never catch fish, but would hold tourist trinkets instead.

There were no umbrellas to load, because Kun Ya hadn’t been painting. Noi thought of the umbrellas she’d decorated with lily pads. But Mr. Poonsub wouldn’t buy those.

She climbed onto the back step of the tricycle.

Before Ting had gone to the factory, Noi would have held on to Kun Pa’s shoulders as he pedaled. She’d have leaned over, the side of her head against his, laughing as he took the turns too fast.

When Noi was little, Kun Pa had carried her high on his shoulders through the jungle. They’d made a game of spotting the bright-colored birds that were now calling their morning greeting. “There’s one!” she’d cry at seeing a flash of feathers against the green. When Kun Pa grew tired of carrying her, they walked with her small hand in his big one.

Sometimes she’d asked him to tell the story of the poisonous king cobras. When Kun Pa was her age, he’d spotted two shiny black snakes slithering through the grass outside his house. Fascinated, little Kun Pa had laughed brightly and chased after them.

Just as the snakes turned and opened the hoods around their heads, Kun Pa’s mother had scooped him up in her arms and hoisted him above the snakes. “Those might have killed you, Chang-noi!” She always called him “Little Elephant.”

At that point in his story, Kun Pa had always lifted Noi high, provoking a shower of giggles.

But Kun Pa had played with Ting as well. He’d called Ting his precious little daughter, had stroked her hair as she fell asleep with her head against his shoulder, had told her, too, about the snakes. And he’d still let Kun Mere send her to the factory.

Now, instead of leaning close to Kun Pa as she rode on the back step of the samlaw, Noi held him at the waist with only her hands touching his shirt.

On the way to the booth that bought and sold fishing baskets, they passed Mr. Poonsub’s booth.

“Where are your grandmother’s umbrellas?” he asked. “People have been wanting them, and they’re all gone.” He spread his hands, indicating the lack of umbrellas, his rings flashing.

“Kun Ya has been feeling tired because of the rains.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Please take her this.” He folded up a square of white silk and wrapped it in paper.

“Thank you, Mr. Poonsub,” said Noi, taking the package.

“She’s not painting, but you could paint, no?” Mr. Poonsub laughed.

“I’m not sure, Mr. Poonsub,” Noi said very quietly. How did he know about the little things Kun Ya had asked her to paint? Was he only joking, or did he think she could paint umbrellas so beautifully that he would buy them?

If he bought them, she would earn money for the household. . . .

Just then, Noi saw a booth selling radios in rows, all exactly alike, smooth and cold-looking. She wondered if they were the radios that Ting made.

The sight of the radios made Noi slow down. They seemed out of place in the market. The other goods — Kun Ya’s umbrellas, the wooden carvings, the embroidered cloths — were all made by people. The radios looked as if they were made by machines.

But the radios were made by people, part of her argued. Hadn’t she seen Ting and the others putting them together?

Noi turned her eyes away. She’d walk in the other direction next time.