The girl, seeing that there was nothing marvelous to look at in Csongor’s bag, had lost interest, pried the baby’s fingers loose from it, and backed away to make further observations. Ambling back toward Yuxia and the boatman, Csongor groped his way into one of the bag’s internal side pockets and pulled out the Ziploc bag containing Peter’s effects. He extracted and opened Peter’s wallet, which was made of ballistic nylon. Flipping it open, he observed what he took to be Peter’s state of Washington driver’s license, trapped beneath a window, and a number of cards and slips of paper stored in a fan of transparent plastic envelopes: some kind of insurance card, a voter’s registration card, a rectangle of white paper with several long strings of random letters, digits, and punctuation marks printed on it: passwords, probably. No photograph of Zula, which only confirmed certain uncharitable opinions that Csongor had been harboring about Peter since the moment they had met. Pockets with credit cards and debit cards. A billfold containing two American dollar bills and a great deal of some other, more colorful currency that Csongor did not immediately recognize: Canadian, he now saw. Very odd to be handling this carefully preserved relic of a dead man’s life in a completely different world, here on a beach in Luzon.