Hammering noises came from the inside of Min’s no-longer-charred food truck. It was still parked in the same spot in the commissary compound, but I’d heard she’d successfully driven it around the block and nothing had fallen off. With Crying Tiger freshly painted in bright blue letters on the side, the truck was starting to look like it had before the fire.
I knocked on the door, and Min came out with a paint-stained rag. She smiled warmly at me, then waved at a security camera mounted under the awning.
“Is that a new one or did it survive the fire?” I asked.
“It is the old one, and it did survive the fire. Once I was able to get the footage downloaded, I learned that it caught the face of the person who started the fire.” She pulled out a folded piece of paper and showed me a color pri
