“One order of Adobo,” uttered Mario while drawing a 20 peso bill out of his battered wallet.
Maja stood up from her wooden stool and took a glance at the bulky man at the counter. Probably at his mid-forties, he had a white towel hung on his left shoulder and wore a simple white shirt and faded jeans. Behind him was a shabby karinderia with just four tables and a few plastic chairs. Fortunately, it was break time. The usual people: the jeepney driver, their 12-year-old neighbor, the college student and the street vendor were there. Her father, Felipe, was not — as usual. Where was he? She couldn’t tell.