My father’s errands were small rites of passage. He would press a few coins into my palm and send me down the street to Lola Elvie’s store, just a few houses away from our home at the back of the Puericulture Center. It was a general merchandise shop, typical of the 1970s, where rice stood beside soap, kerosene, and sundry goods—necessities for survival in upland Balete, when the Jal‑o River was still the principal road. By Saturday, Market Day, the place swelled with voices from Ilaya, the upland folk carrying their week’s barter and coins. There, amid jars of candy lined like jewels and the faint smell of kerosene clinging to the air, I would ask for my father’s brand—Marlboro. Nang Viola, Lola Elvie’s daughter, would smile as I appeared at the counter, her eyes bright with familiarity, and ask what I was after for the day. That simple gesture—half welcome, half ritual—made the errand feel less like contraband and more like belonging. The cowboy’s brand, riding across the tel...