“Suspicious how?” Mara’s palms dampened.

Sophea shrugged. “The certificate needs a lab stamp. Come back tomorrow.”

The wood was alive.

Powderpost beetle.

She looked at the Buddha in her lap—a reject from the crate, its base chipped. A tiny hole, no bigger than a needle’s eye, stared back. She blew on it. Fine sawdust puffed out.

Mara closed her eyes. The certificate wasn’t a lie—it was a prayer. And in Cambodia, sometimes that was the only export that cleared customs.

Outside, the Mekong had turned the color of rusted metal. Mara sat on a plastic stool and drank lukewarm sugarcane juice. Her phone buzzed: the gallery owner in Lyon. Where is the shipment? The exhibition opens Friday.