by Ryan Graudin
“This… this is your home?” The boy blinks.
Home. The word fills me with an ache. I shove the door open with a rusty squeal. The stairwell behind it never really grows less ugly. Its walls are soaked with water, crumbling like a sand castle on its last legs. A few years ago someone decided to paint them green, but only patches have lasted. Even those are peeling off in rot and curls, like a snake shedding dead skin.
Not home. Never home.
“I’m just staying here awhile.” My answer climbs the steep, narrow stairs.
Jin follows in silence, but I can still feel his questions. The apartment, the gun, the money for these things… none of them add up in his mind. Not that they should; my story isn’t the easiest equation.
Maybe it was a mistake to bring him back here. Tsang would certainly have my head for it. He’d call it something like a “leak” or a “compromise.” But Tsang’s an asshole, and there’s no way I was going to leave the kid stranded in that alley. Not with Kuen’s wolf pack circling, waiting for my gun to disappear.
The old rules are changing.
We climb the thirteen stories to the second gate. I unlock the door and let him in.
I try to see the apartment through Jin’s eyes. A single room covered in yellowing coin-size tiles and more peeling green paint. No decorations, furniture, or food. The only signs that a person lives here at all are my pile of essentials in the corner and the charcoal marks on the far wall.
Jin steps into the room, cradling that cat like a little girl would hold a doll. He shucks off his boots and stares at the emptiness. His feet make soft sticking noises on the tiles as he walks over to the window where the veranda is and looks out. The window and its veranda are the only things I don’t absolutely hate about this apartment. Every once in a while a breeze will dip down from the open sky, and around noon there’s a crescent of sunlight that hits the tiles.
But, like every other veranda in every other Hak Nam apartment, mine is covered in bars. They’re supposed to keep thieves out, but on my darker days all I see is the cage that’s keeping me in.
“You’re not a vagrant, then.” Jin turns, lets the cat down. I can feel my nose starting to itch. Damn allergies.
“Never said I was.”
“But if you don’t work for the Brotherhood or a gang… how did you get this apartment? What do you do?”
What do I do? What a question. I feel like I’m taking an exam, holding my pencil over a row of bubble answers. Trying to pick the best one.
A) Stay awake for days at a time to avoid my own nightmares.
B) Sit on the edge of Hak Nam’s rooftops, waiting for a wind that’s strong enough.
C) Always wear my hoodie so I never have to see the scar on my arm.
D) Lie to a beautiful, desperate girl to save my own skin.
The truth is all over this list, but none of the choices is the best answer. So I write in my own half-truth, cheat a little. “You know. I’m a runner. Freelancer. I find jobs and take them. Or give them to people like you.”
He’s looking around again, eyes as wide as the cat’s. They scour this place like my grandmother’s willow broom, picking apart every groove in every tile. It’s odd how I feel like so much is hiding here when the only things that are mine are the T-shirts and jeans and jacket stacked in the corner. And, of course, because it’s the one place I don’t want him to be, the cat plants his pounds of fur and dander straight on the folded fabric. I’ll be gracing the world with my nasal linings for months.
“By all means”—I glare at the cat—“make yourself comfortable.”
The animal yawns—white fangs, sandpaper tongue—and stretches as long as he can over my jacket. Jin ignores him. His stare is on the far wall, where the charcoal marks grin at us like rows of rotten teeth.
“What are all those lines?”
I look to where he’s pointing and remember that I don’t have months. Just days. Thirteen. It’s not a tight number, but it certainly feels that way when I think about it, squeezing like a rope around my neck. I bring a hand to my throat. “It’s a… calendar. Of sorts.”
Jin’s eyes grow thin with study. His head tilts just a few degrees. “Who are you?”
More bubbles. More terrible, true choices.
A) Not a good person.
B) A selfish bastard.
C) A murderer.
D) A liar.
E) All of the above.
There’s no writing in this answer.
I look at the kid again. Ever since I pulled the trigger, my whole body has been on pins and needles, waiting for my brother’s ghost to shine through. But Jin’s face stays Jin’s. Though some of the fierceness is gone. His expression is softer, less like that of a tiger about to maul my face off and more like a pampered shih tzu’s.
Something about the way he’s standing feels off. I can’t seem to place it. Maybe it’s the smear of still-bright blood on his shirt. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t like him asking. I don’t want him looking at me like he looked at the room, trying to pick me apart and figure me out. Finding the dirt between the cracks.
“Sun Dai Shing,” I tell him. All of the above.
“Sun,” he repeats my family name. It echoes over the marked tiles, through the window, to the bars. Ties my past and my present prison into a neat little bundle.
I walk over to my pile of stuff, like I could actually run from the fading sounds. The cat doesn’t move, just voices his opinion loudly when I root through the things. There’s a first aid kit somewhere in here. A scarlet pouch with a white cross crammed full of things I never use. (Tweezers and tongue depressors don’t do much when your hurts are inside.)
“What’s that?” Jin blinks at the pouch.
“Let me see your hand.” I nod at the kid’s fist. It’s clenched against his chest, tight as a furled poppy. He offers it slowly. Fingers blooming to show the still-oozing gash striped across his lifeline. An ill omen, my grandmother would have called it.
“It’s not bad.”
Not bad. The cut is so deep I’m surprised the kid can still bend his fingers. He needs stitches and a tetanus shot. Not some flimsy cloth and a bottle of peroxide.
But they’re all I have.
The peroxide fizzes and foams over Jin’s cut like a rabid wolf. It has to hurt like a bitch, but the kid’s face stays tough. Under this light, I can see all his other scars, spreading up his arm like lace. Some are shiny and white. Others, angry and red. Just like mine.
But Jin probably didn’t deserve his marks.
I wrap the gauze tight and knot the fraying ends. Jin eyes the bandage, flexes his hand in and out. In and out.
“Try not to move it,” I tell him.
“It’s fine.” He clenches his hand into a fist again. Tough as nails.
I wish I could be fixed that easily.
“Right. Well, it’s late. We should crash. Pick a spot anywhere. If you can move the king from his perch over there, you’re welcome to use my jacket as a pillow.”
I reach out and flick the light switch. The room pitches into a startling darkness. I can’t see Jin’s scars anymore. Or the lines on the wall.
“Dai?” Jin’s whisper is light and high. Not like him at all.
“What?”
There’s a pause as I fumble through the dark to the center of my room.
“Thanks.”
You’re welcome. The answer sticks inside my throat like an octopus tentacle. I can’t bring myself to say it. Not when I know the real reason I did all these things.
Tonight I don’t bother unzipping my hoodie and using it as a pillow. I lie flat on the floor, curl my knees up to my chest. In my mind I map out where the wall with the marks is. I turn my back to it.
JIN LING
My hand has stopped hurting. I keep it close to my chest. My finger brushes the bandage—the cleanest one I’ve ever had.
Sleep comes easy when there’s a roof. Four walls. I make my bed in the far corner, back to the ti
les. Chma has left Dai’s laundry pile in favor of my warmth. He curls against my full belly, rattles me with a lullaby of purrs.
No knives. No rats. No hunger. Just rest.
And Dai.
The older boy lies in the middle of the room. Coiled like a snail. Hidden deep in his shell. His breaths echo all over. Remind me—even when the dreams start edging in—I’m not alone.
I could get used to this.
12 DAYS
JIN LING
The rice cake is sweet. Honey drips over its sides, makes my teeth ache when I sink them in. Mei Yee sits behind me. Her fingers run through my thick, tangled hair. Soft, gentle, never hurting. She pulls it apart into three sections. Starts to weave them into one.
“The braid is always stronger than the strand.” Her melodic proverb floats over my shoulder.
I should tell her that my hair is too short. There’s nothing left to braid. But honey sticks in my mouth. Catches all my words. I try to turn, try to see her. But the dark is closing in. Dream’s end.
The sweet of honey on my teeth, my long hair, my sister’s voice. All of it’s gone.
The dark in front of me shifts. It’s Dai. Getting up. Creeping toward the door. Like a ribbon through the air: silent, graceful. The way some people move when they don’t want to be followed.
I don’t move until the door clicks shut, the stairwell’s light swallowed back into pitch dark. Dai’s footsteps sound like raindrops. Fading fast.
He’s leaving. But why?
I pause at the door. Each step grows fainter. Slipping away. If I wait too long, I won’t be able to track him. Part of me wants to go back to sleep. Forget this ever happened. It’s the same part that wants to trust Dai. That wants to believe he’s worth trusting.
But trust hasn’t brought me through two years of knife fights and hunger. Dai’s hiding something.… This might be my only chance to find out what.
I don’t bother knotting my bootlaces before I rush out. Stairs whip under my feet. Two, three at a time. Threaded through with my silver cat stalker. Soon I’m out in the streets shadow-hopping and alley-weaving. An awkward rush to catch up to Dai.
It’s so late even the restaurants are empty. Tanks of fresh fish and eels bubble like electric crickets. No cigarettes burn in doorways. No old men crouch on steps sipping cheap liquor. Even the vagrants are asleep.
Dai moves ahead of me. He walks fast, hands shoved in his pockets.
I follow. Keep my distance. He moves to the end of the street, where the line of hanging pipes stops and the buildings’ soggy concrete walls fold open to air. The outside, star-studded night. I look for Cassiopeia, but the angle isn’t right. All I see are a truck’s taillights—red and shouting—like dragon’s eyes. A wind knifes through the gap, cool and careless and dark. This is the end of Longwai’s kingdom. The entrance to City Beyond.
But Dai doesn’t step over. He leans against the wall. Arms crossed. One knee up. Minutes pass. I crouch in a shallow doorway. Watch the older boy as he watches City Beyond. Waiting.
Then he stands straight again. His shoulders go rigid. A man-shaped shadow appears. Fills the empty space next to Dai. The hood of his jacket drapes far over his face. I can’t see anything past the bridge of his nose.
I hear him, though. Every word. His voice is brassy. Not loud, but strong. Like a temple gong. “Are you staying out of trouble?”
Dai nods. The action looks more like a bow.
The man-shadow pulls a tightly bound wad from his pocket. He offers the package to Dai. It hovers between them.
“Take it,” the man says. “You know how she worries.”
“I’m doing well enough on my own.” Dai frowns.
“You mean risking your neck?” The man pushes the parcel into Dai’s chest. His voice drops low. “You’ve been doing work for the Security Branch, haven’t you?”
Dai stares at the man, his mouth grim.
His visitor sighs. “Look, I know—I know they’ve made promises, but you have no obligation there. You need to stay safe. That’s your biggest priority until we can get you out of here.”
“And when will that be?”
“We’re getting closer.…”
“It’s been two years!” Dai’s yell isn’t very loud, but it sets me on edge. He’s always so calm and even-keeled. Like a paper boat set in a shallow puddle. Something about this man is wrecking him. “Two years! If you could’ve pulled me out, you would’ve by now. I’m running out of time. I can’t just sit and do nothing!”
“Nothing,” the man continues, unshaken, “is exactly what you must do. Stay here. Stay alive. If Longwai finds out who you are…”
Dai looks away from the hooded man and the package pressed against his chest. His eyes bore back into the streets. This dark maze of silent doors. His stare slides past my stoop. My heart turns to lead.
“Where’s your jacket? Are you even staying in the apartment?”
Dai shrugs, but he still isn’t looking at his visitor. He’s staring at the ground. At the shards of liquor bottles, layers of mortar and filth. And my stare is on him. Trying to answer the monsoon questions rumbling in my head.
Who is this man? Who is the “she” he talks about? Who is Dai?
“She worries about you. I worry about you. We already lost—”
“Don’t!” Dai’s head snaps up. Jaw set. Chin sharp. “Don’t talk about him.”
Some agreement I can’t hear or see passes between them. Dai’s arm closes across his chest, tucks the bundle like a sleeping child. The same way I hold Chma.
“We won’t lose you, too. This will end,” the man says. “I promise.”
“Why do you even bother?”
“You know why,” the man says.
Dai isn’t smiling or frowning. His face is flat when he turns away.
I shrink back, but Dai isn’t looking at the hidden corners he passes. His walk is full of energy. Purpose. He stares straight ahead, as if he wants nothing more than to get away. The man-shadow stands on the edge of City Beyond, watching Dai’s every step.
Then they’re both gone. Wind howls through the gap they left, a lonely, wailing sound. It cuts into my bones. Punches a hole through my chest. My fist clenches tight. Remembers the hurt under the bandage.
The wad the man-shadow pressed into Dai’s chest had to be money. How else could he hold keys to an apartment or wedge a gun into his untorn jeans? But why would the man-shadow give him money? And if Dai has money, why work for Longwai? If the man-shadow wants him to stay hidden, why is he sitting right under the Brotherhood’s nose? What is the Security Branch? How is Dai working for them?
And the biggest question of all: Why can’t he leave?
It seems Dai has more secrets than scars. Secrets that involve Longwai and Dai’s risking his neck. Which means, all this time, he’s been risking mine.
Kuen and his knives, I can handle. Dodge, duck, hide. That’s all it takes. But Dai… he’s a different kind of danger. Made of sweet and sleep and safe. The kind that creeps up while you’re dreaming. Stabs you in the back.
I never should’ve broken the second rule. Never should’ve let myself get closed in by his four walls. A place with no room to run. What good is a locked door when the threat might be inside?
I’ve survived two whole years on these streets. I don’t need anyone to save me.
MEI YEE
Every day the walls shrink smaller, smaller, smaller. Even staring out into the alley doesn’t hold them back. The nautilus shell sits, a marker of the boy and his promise. A reminder that it’s out there and I’m in here.
The painted stars above me are stale, old. I soak them in anyway. I’ve picked out all the blemishes, every point where the painter’s hand trembled. I shut my eyes, try to imagine how she stood with the brush tucked between her fingers like a chopstick. I decided long ago that the creator of this mural was a girl. The master and his men would never create something so desperate and beautiful.
As I stare, I wond
er about the girl. What was her name? Where did she come from? What was she thinking about when she sketched the stars onto the tiles? Was she still brave, still hopeful enough to place a wish on each one?
There are dozens of them, flecked over my bed. But there are still more wishes in my soul than there are stars.
I wish I could hold Jin Ling’s hand in mine.
I wish Sing never tried to run.
I wish the boy didn’t make my chest burn, make my thoughts soar like a phoenix.
I wish every girl in this brothel could be one of the lucky ones.
I wish, like the boy, I was somewhere else. Someone else.
And on and on and on.
The time the window-boy gave me is half vanished when the ambassador comes for a visit. Two days lost to staring, wondering, and worrying at my bedroom door. When it finally opens, my heart paces inside my chest like a tiger trapped in a bamboo cage. It drips with the ache of so many wishes—heavy and bloated. The ache the boy started. The ache so deep not even the ambassador’s flowers can distract me. Their petals are a yellow and orange so bright that I can’t look at them for long. Colors so exaggerated they seem fake.
His coat is heavier today, and his skin feels like marble against mine, an unyielding cold. He notices, too, but in a different way. “You’re warm.”
The ambassador draws into the heat my body offers. His hands tug on my dress, my hair, but all I can feel is the window at my back. The thin veil of the curtain and the nautilus behind it. Taunting and tempting with promises of something more.
And then it comes to me. I know how to make Mama-san unlock my door, if I’m willing to take the risk.
The ambassador is my key. His money is more powerful than Mama-san’s anger or the master’s apathy.
“You’re very cold,” I say once he’s finished and rolled over onto the silky, rippled sheets. Once his arm drapes across me like a sash.
“I’m sorry.” His honey-drip murmur fills my ear. Slows with encroaching sleep.
I shift and turn so that his hand slides off me and we’re face-to-face.