The Future Fire: 2025.74 fiction better

[Issue 2025.74]

‘The Better Ends’, V. Zixin

I felt you.

We were both teenagers at the time. Or near enough, anyway. Neither of us knew when our birthdays really were. Children didn’t seem to be born in Shenzhen. They materialized around alleyways and market stalls before being adopted by the proper enclaves. I was dressed up in a set of scratchy overalls and had found a nylon jacket that almost matched the shade of leather I was looking for. The cardboard cutout on my head was supposed to be a cowgirl’s hat. I was wearing a pair of boots that my brother had died with.

You were dancing inside the market. Someone had sanded down a pallet of wood for you to move on, so while the rest of us scuffed our boots against concrete you seemed to glide. Sets of metal bracelets had been looped around your feet, only to melt into the robes you were wearing. Scraps of red, purple, and green drifted around you. It made you seem to linger, which was ridiculous. You ended each step like you were ripping off a band-aid, uncompromising and sudden. You stomped your foot and it was like you had plucked my body into song. You were the best. I knew that because no one else was up there with you. You would tell me later that the stall owner couldn’t afford any more dancers, that you had just been too much of an expensive investment to begin with, but none of that changed that they had picked you to invest in. I watched your foot hit the mat again and I felt nailed to the spot.

The song must’ve ended after that. You were bowing and people were throwing coins and bills at you. I picked up the best thing I had at the time, my hat, and tossed it in. I thought it would be fun to have it land on your head.

It hit your eye instead.

I wasn’t trying to run away. I just needed some time to think. No one ever paid attention to urchins, so I guess I had gotten used to being ignored. It was scary when everyone looked at me, and scarier still when arms wrapped themselves around me to drag me back. By the time they dumped me in front of you I was crying pretty badly.

You looked sad, and that made me start apologizing. I wanted to tell you it was all an accident and that I would never try and throw a hat into your face after a dance. Someone pointed to your tears and I started saying that it looked pretty. That made you laugh and suddenly I was doing nothing but praising tears, holding each droplet up to the heavens as an example of perfection.

Next thing I knew we were perched on plastic chairs while customers bustled past us. I was still talking, still trying to keep the conversation afloat, and you were laughing so well that the conversation soared. I shared a pocket of rat jerky with you, and when it started raining outside I showed you what it was like to pray. I tore the bitter end off of my jerky and told you to watch as I tossed it out of the stall and into the street. We watched the acid eat away at it, softening the meat until it broke down into fibers and flowed into the gutters. I told you about a country called America, where the skies were blue and spacious. Where the rain didn’t burn your skin and the sun didn’t look like a moldy piece of yolk. Where amber waves of grain met purple mountains. A land where cowboys and legends stretched from sea to shining sea. That’s why we threw the bitter ends away. That was why we burned our money and vomited into drains. Why every night in Little Texas a thousand gunshots streaked into the sky.

Sweet land of liberty.

Land where my fathers died.

Land of the Pilgrim’s pride.

You saw me sing. You saw me scratch beneath my overalls, ripping off layers of dead skin and lice. A cardboard hat lay in my lap, and when others passed I would clutch it up against my chest and raise my voice.

Let freedom ring.

You pushed yourself into me. Your hair tickled my nose. Pieces of lace brushed against my arms. Your skin pressed against mine.

I felt you.

You asked me to keep singing. I told you that you would catch lice.

Our first gun looked nice.

We had been playing for around a year at this point. I would watch you dance in the mornings and you would wander away with me after you finished. We stayed in the market at first, but eventually you let me lead you outside. We dropped rocks into canals, chased birds off of telephone poles, and climbed up fire escapes to see the city. When it was raining, we would hide under canvas sheets and toss scraps into acid puddles. When it wasn’t raining, I would point my finger up at the sun and lower it until it reached the apartment blocks, waves of concrete that roiled and rolled with noise.

We told each other that we would rise with age, fly up from the slums into the aristolofts that stretched over our heads. There were only half a dozen of the monoliths within the city but each one eclipsed the horizon. They were mountains of industry, cliffs of steel and fiberglass that seemed so smooth that they were alien to our concrete. Half a million people lived inside each one. We made a game out of pretending we were part of them. We ordered imaginary servants to give us ice cream and made sunglasses out of each other’s fingers. Sometimes we talked so fast that neither of us truly recognized which language we were speaking. You taught me how to curse in Punjabi. I taught you how to sing in English. We pooled our money to buy comics and learn Mandarin.

When I first brought you into Little Texas you were fascinated with my people. Everyone wore their wealth in leather. Fights happened every time someone raised their voice. Someone was always raising their voice. I took you into a bar and let you watch one of the fights, brass knuckles winking in the light as teeth were knocked out onto the counter. The winner offered to buy a round of drinks and everyone cheered.

When they sang, I was afraid that you would leave me. I thought that those words were the only things that made me worth staying with. They were my secret, my pride, and when I brought you out into that bar I thought those words would stop being a secret and I would stop being special. Instead, you turned to me and smiled.

My country ’tis of thee.

It’s easy to rob drunk people, especially if they’re looking somewhere else. Just as you were fascinated with my people, they were fascinated with you. Each time you took a step I could hear the metal jingle at your ankles and see heads snap to track you. It was like ripping a band-aid off to look away from you, but it was worth it when you saw the money afterwards. I would’ve robbed a thousand bars if I could see that smile. I handed you a nest of dollar bills and wrinkled yuan, punctuated by a single silver dollar in the middle. We spent the paper on snacks and soda. The silver dollar would have fetched us a bag of candy as tall as you were, but I convinced you to follow me. There was a stall behind the bar where an old man lived. He spent his days spitting on cartridges and polishing them against his jeans. When he grinned, a crescent slice of ivory split his face open. I held the silver dollar up towards him like a medal. He reached underneath the stall and brought the gun out.

It was a revolver. They were always revolvers in Little Texas. It was part of the reason so many of our people lay dead in alleyways, gunned down by Triad enforcers or Russian bandits with automatics. We hewed to tradition and died for an aesthetic. The wheelgun clicked as I turned it over in my hands, fingers tracing over each ridge of the cylinder. He had handed me a small gun, one typically used by assassins and the paranoid. The heft of the weapon was heavy, but the recoil would not hurt me unduly. I readjusted my hands around the handle until I felt comfortable. Then I remembered.

“Bullets?”

The old man nodded and held out a plastic bag. Looking at me all the while, he reached down and dropped three handfuls of rimmed cartridges into the bag. When he spoke, his teeth seemed to vibrate.

“Lead.”

The cartridges clinked against each other as I brought them out. They were handcrafted in the back of this alley, imperfections more mesmerizing than any printed bullet. I had watched people reload enough times to know the motions but not the specifics. The gun remained empty and the old man had to show me how to break the cylinder out. I watched him drop cartridges in quick succession before snapping the revolver back into shape. He handed it to me, handle first.

“Load,” he said. “Or die.” He looked at you behind me. “Both of you.”

I knocked the bullets out and turned to show you how to reload the gun, but you shook your head. Not here. Not now. The old man hadn’t moved. He was still staring at you as we left, the gun stuck into my jacket pocket. You were shaken. You weren’t like me, who experienced attention through a drip-fed dose. You were used to being watched and seen, but from a distance. The man had looked at you and proclaimed death. Nothing I told you after this would let you forgive him, would convince you that what happened wasn’t his fault.

We got back to the market as the sun was setting, drunk on corn syrup and food coloring. You were showing me dances along the sidewalk, making beats out of shards of concrete and asphalt. The dark didn’t scare us, because Shenzhen was never truly dark. Paper lamps were strung over the market and contrasted against the more colorful displays of street stalls. We made shadow puppets against their signs and giggled until the vendors chased us away. We had so much fun running that we didn’t even notice them turning away, leaving us to return to our corner of the market.

It was the heat that we noticed first. Waves of it pushed against us. Someone had doused your stall in gasoline before setting it on fire. There must have been a few jugs of cooking oil inside, because as we turned something burst and spat embers at us. A body was sprawled on the counter, fat bubbling down its arms and hollowing its cheeks. I didn’t recognize the body but I heard you whisper a name into the fire. I was hugging you then, trying to stop you from throwing pieces of concrete and glass into the flames. You were tearing your hands apart and crying at the body to move, to get out of there, to run away before they burned. Tendons were snapping and you screamed as the head started to detach itself.

An order, barked in Mandarin.

There was a trio of men in green jackets approaching us. The stench of gasoline stained their hands. They were asking us what to do with the runts. I blinked. They were asking each other what to do with us. You started moving.

I felt you take the gun out of my jacket. I definitely felt you headbutt me. A strand of your hair got caught in my teeth and tore out when you stood up. Like ripping off a band-aid. The shots echoed off of the walls. Half a dozen cracks that collapsed into a pitiful clicking sound. When I opened my eyes you were still pointing it at one of their bodies, arms shaking, fingers clasped around the trigger. They were splayed out in front of us, a trio of corpses. One of their hands started burning as it fell into the fire. The alley was empty, anyone else with good sense having abandoned it hours ago. I took the gun out of your hands and showed you how to reload it. You looked up to me and your mouth cracked to show bare teeth.

Land of the free.

I hugged you. You hugged back. We sat together and watched the bitter ends burn.

The rain bleached my hair.

It had been an hour since my home was burned. We were still sitting. You had your head against my neck. Your arms cradled me. My arms were in my lap. I was looking down at the gun that lay in front of us. Rain had coated its frame, and I could see spots of rust begin to form across the barrel. I realized that it was raining on us as well, and I gave a hiss as my scalp started burning. You untangled yourself from me and began wiping me down with your sleeves, breathless pleas crowding me out. You were so worried back then. You had never known your parents, had been a foreigner to the very concept of a family. To you comfort lay within tradition, grief within digression. You came into my loss as a pilgrim, dedicated yourself to me like an artisan.

You saved me.

You convinced me to follow you out of that pyre, away from the men I had killed. Rainguards flanked either side of the alleyway, taut ceilings of canvas shielding us from the worst of the rain. You left me by a paper lamp and went back in to take their money. It was easy to steal from drunk people, you explained. It was easier to steal from dead people.

I heard your voice waver. Felt your hand shake. They say that every orphan in Little Texas had seen a corpse before. Monsters and murderers, the lot of them. You walked away and I realized that I was larger than you. The boots added inches to your legs, the leathers broadened your shoulders, so many layers giving the illusion of growth.

I watched you work out in the rain, buffering the burn with your jacket. The corpses had kept rings stacked up on each finger, overlapping bands of gold and silver which still glimmered against the embers. You tried to tug them off, only to find the hands swollen after death. You found a knife on one of their bodies and used it to hack the rings off instead, slipping them into a wet pile. Then you went through their pockets and stuffed any wallets you found into your jacket. Their guns were left on the sidewalk, a tower of printed polymer and plastic. You came back to me scalded but smiling. You took me by the hand and led me into Little Texas.

There was food at first. So much food. You gave me hot dogs drenched in chili, funnel cakes coated with powdered sugar, and hash browns cooked over cast iron skillets, pockmarked with egg yolk and bits of bacon. An armada of marshmallows floated over hot chocolate. When I grew tired you served me coffee spooled with sugar and cream. We blew through half a dozen diners and cafes that night, all of them lit up under fluorescent lights and reflective counters. Everyone stared but when you flashed those rings across the counter they would start smiling and even laughing with us. It wasn’t until I saw them pushing the rings back that I realized it wasn’t money that they respected.

It was violence.

The three men I had shot were Triad enforcers. They were Chinese traditionalists, perpetually irked that they had to share the slums with other cultures and perpetually resentful that their countrymen had locked them down here on the basis of wealth. Consigned to being lords of the barrel, they took their frustration out on the rest of us. They would trawl throughout the enclaves and demand protection money to make sure we never got hurt. If we missed our protection money, they would make sure we got hurt. Everyone enjoyed seeing them taken down a peg.

No one seemed particularly concerned about us.

As we went to each restaurant you would take the seat next to me, closest to the window. Your hat would be placed onto the table and you would glance outside during each break in the conversation. Part of it was safety, of course, but you were scouting for a home as well. You wanted to find somewhere for us to settle down before the night ended. You would joke with me, pat my hair down, and teach me how to eat each new dish that was served in front of us. I’d finish the meal and you would hug me before hustling us over to the next block.

The last stop of the night was a pub whose owners were too tired to put up with the pretensions of Little Texas anymore. A pair of claymore mines were strapped to the entrance, green lights blinking down at us merrily as we pushed the door open to a jingle. The owners were cutting potatoes when we entered. A Kalashnikov was pinned up against the back wall, followed by a row of dried scalps. Both the owners were white, which didn’t make them stand out in Little Texas, but neither of them wore leathers, which absolutely did. All they had on was t-shirts and beaten jeans. Other than that neither of them looked very memorable. Both of them were old to my eyes, which meant that they were somewhere between 30 and 60. One of them was a woman with her hair tied into a ponytail. The other was a man who had shaved his head. They both looked tired. At that point of the night, it almost made them family to me. They watched you dump a pile of blood splattered rings onto the counter.

The man used one finger to root through the rings before picking two out. He spoke to you. “What do you want?”

I felt you relax and knew that this was where we were going to stay. “Food and information,” you said. The man nodded.

“We could do that.”

Another fifteen minutes and we were treated to a plate of fries and two mugs of root beer. You took a fry and pushed the rest towards me. “Other places gave us more.”

“Other places gave you less,” the man grumbled. “They just gave you more food to make up for it.”

“You know about us?”

“You’ve been hitting up half of Little Texas, kid.” The man nodded towards his partner. She lifted her hand up and set a pistol onto the counter.

Not a revolver, I noted. A semi-automatic. A clover had been carved into the handle.

You lifted your hands up. “I’m not going to hurt you guys.”

“Of course not,” the man said. “Not while she’s got a gun pointed at you.” He pushed your root beer towards you. “And we’re not going to hurt you, as long as you don’t hurt us. We’re all very safe.” He looked at the both of us. “What are you guys, siblings?”

I shook my head. “Do we look like siblings?”

“No,” the man said. He picked up his knife and went back to cutting potatoes. The woman kept staring at us.

You swallowed and started speaking again. “You know what we’ve done?”

“You’ve killed three Triad men and desecrated their bodies.” The woman’s voice was deep and well-worn. It sounded like she was pronouncing our future rather than describing our past.

I thought about the gunmaker and shuddered. Had it really been just a few hours ago? He had spoken of death as well. Maybe Americans were so used to visiting death upon one another that they could see it in their words, woven into each syllable and sentence. The woman frowned.

“You’re looking for safe harbor.”

“No one would take my money.” You looked pitiful, hands full of rings and eyes on the verge of tears. I was grieving and deprived but for you, this was a night of rejection. You had brought me into your neighborhood because you had thought you could keep us safe. Instead, you fed and hugged me while every friend and countryman patted you on the back and let you walk out to die. The fact that we were here, in a pub that could be barely considered to be part of Little Texas, meant that you were already exiled from your people.

Your voice was quiet. “No one wanted me.”

“No one wanted your trouble.” The man grunted. He bisected the eye of a potato and pulled out a squirming parasite. “Your leathers might get you a free round at the bar, but don’t expect anyone to die for you.”

You glared at the man. “Not die. Help.”

“Who would help a murderer?”

You stood up. The woman pointed her gun at you. You ignored it. “Not a murderer. Don’t say—”

“The truth?” The man asked. “You killed some pompous assholes, good for you. Every cowboy in the slums is dreaming of you.”

I raised my voice. “It was me.” Even then, I wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or pride that I felt. Maybe you were rubbing off on me already. The two owners turned towards me. “You?”

I pulled the root beer over to wash the fries down. “They burned—” I swallowed. “They burned Bebe and Abba.”

“The stall,” you clarified. “They burned the stall.”

“They killed your family,” the woman said. “You okay, darling?”

I kept eating fries. The man grunted. “Well there’s a motive, at least from your side. Any idea why the fuckers burned you?”

I shook my head. Maybe Bebe or Abba had forgotten to set aside the money that week. Maybe they had set the money aside and it had been stolen. Maybe the enforcers would’ve forgiven them if only their darling dancer had been there.

Maybe I shouldn’t have left.

My head rested on your shoulder. You propped me back up. “We’re tired,” you said. “How many rings for help?”

The two owners looked at each other. The man coughed. “All,” he said.

“All?” You seemed to roll the word through your mouth, spitting it out with a frown. “No one else even asked for anything.”

“No one else even offered anything,” he said. “Taking you in is risking a fight with the Triad, and most of the folks here have nothing but peashooters and hats.” He nodded towards the mass of cardboard on your head. “Nice one, by the way. Very cute. Ever seen a bullet shear through someone’s skull?”

You pushed the rest of the rings towards the man.

He set his knife down and mopped the rings up with a rag before returning to his potatoes. He was arranging them into strips on a foil sheet. “You’re lucky that I didn’t ask for the wallets too.”

You looked down. The man snickered. “Kids. That’s what you are. Fucking kids.”

“That’s the only reason he’s offering at all,” the woman said. She threw her head back towards the scalps on the wall. “Guilty conscience. Too many dead ones in the past.”

“Too many living ones in the present,” the man dipped each strip into the fryer for a dozen seconds before dropping them back onto the sheet. “Can’t do shit in this city without someone seeing you.”

“It was empty,” you said. “When we shot them.”

“Just because you didn’t see anyone doesn’t mean they didn’t see you,” the man said. “Now, everyone hates the Triad, but someone’s going to find the body and someone’s gonna let them know that they’ve lost three of their men in the market. Add a couple of days for them to offer a reward, subtract whatever inaccuracies you get from eyewitness reports—” he grabbed a salt shaker and scattered the grains over his fries. “They’re gonna know you fled into Little Texas. It’s your job to make sure they don’t get to know anything else.”

“I just gave you half my money.”

“Then use the other half,” the man said. “Rent out an apartment on the other side of this street. Owner’s a drunkard, so maybe he won’t know you by morning. Pick a room high and small, wait for us to come in each morning.” He pointed towards the OPEN sign at the front. “You see that, you know that it’s safe to come out.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then we slept in late,” the man looked towards his partner. “Or we’re scared. Or we’re dead. Either way, don’t come down until you see the sign.” He waved his hand. “Now get the fuck out of my bar, before someone else comes.”

I didn’t mind that the room was small. Our stall had always been cramped, and I had spent most of my nights sleeping with merchandise on one side and family on the other. It made me feel safe to be confined, aware of everything and everyone around me. So what if our living room was our bedroom and our kitchen was our bathroom? Those words meant nothing to me. We had two rooms. That had to be enough for the both of us.

I just couldn’t stand the height. I looked outside the window and could barely see the city that I knew, roads reduced to nothing more than squiggles of asphalt. You had picked an apartment with a good angle towards the pub, and every morning you would wake me up so that we could both crowd around the window and peer at the light being turned on. The owners never acknowledged us, and it was a matter of faith on our part to believe that they hadn’t pocketed the rings and left us to fend for ourselves. Still, we breathed easier after seeing the sign light up. All I had were my sari and ghungroos from that night, and with my home reduced to ash, I had to ask you for new clothing. I couldn’t leave the apartment by myself. It was for the same reason that our apartment was half a kilometer above the ground.

People would notice me.

The clothes you brought home were nothing more than worn denim, completely unsuited for the weather. Shenzhen was built on the southern coast of China, and while Hong Kong had been reduced and the sea levels had risen, it still remained one of the largest cities in the world. The collective body heat and pollution from 20 million souls merged with the tropical humidity and ruined your clothing. They chafed against my skin and grew sodden with smog. I looked into the bathroom mirror and nearly screamed as I saw the white streaks that wound through my hair. Was it from the leaks in the apartment? The streets you had led me through? The time you and I had shared in front of the fire? Whatever it was, patches of my hair had been burned to their roots. I picked a strand out and it disintegrated as I rubbed my fingers against it.

You must’ve noticed too, because you gave me your hat. Your hair was so tangled it was difficult to see if it had been damaged in the first place, a rat’s nest of auburn strands. You didn’t mention my hair when you gave it to me. You just held the hat out, smiling, and placed it onto my head. The hat jostled onto my head and scratched against my scalp. It fit wrong, like all of the clothes you bought for us.

That was the point, I knew. You and your people loved to make mistakes. You loved to speak the wrong language, wear the wrong clothes, live in the wrong nation. It was like watching someone bite through steel. But there was no winning with that struggle. You either broke your teeth or ruined the metal. There were times I was worried that I was more attracted to the idea than the person. That I was a moth, drawn to bright lights but little else.

But then you sang.

When you sang it was like you had stopped fighting for once in your life. That you had stopped jerking and twitching underneath an entire ecosystem of stressors and tensions. Your eyes closed and your hands came up to your chest, clasped together on top of whatever overalls and leathers you had buried yourself in. You opened your mouth and high, lilting tones soared out.

You sang of home.

And maybe it was stupid of me to believe in those words. To participate in a mutual delusion with you. I had watched the only people I loved burst open underneath a gas fire, and here you were promising me a land of the free. I don’t think I ever stood a chance.

We had dinners, giggling concoctions made from whatever ingredients you could bring up. I couldn’t remember the name of half the spices I wanted so I described them to you, and when I ran out of words for how they looked, I moved onto how they tasted. Cumin was like earth and wood, full-bodied and rooted. You asked me what the Hell that meant and I told you to imagine my wooden pallet, the noise it made when I stomped against it. Cumin tasted like that.

You made no objection.

Turmeric should be like pressing your tongue against that wood, sudden and yet not unpleasant. Smoked paprika was a teaspoon of smog that had been squeezed through pulped peppers. I would leave you with these riddles and you would race down to the market, dashing from sample to sample and hoping to discern the same memories I had once felt within the spices. You could barely read and were deathly terrified of asking the stall owners for help.

It was bad luck to steal from those you owed favors to.

When you did snatch a handful of bags and sprint up to our apartment, most of the spices were invariably incorrect. We would sit there and argue over powders that neither of us knew and debate the flavor. Did it taste like morning mist? Sawdust off a counter? Leather cuffs? You stood up and held your sleeve out towards me while I laughed.

C’mon. Gimme a taste.

I nipped at your sleeve. A flake of leather fell back onto my tongue. You fell back in mock agony and poked at my cheek.

Hey, give it back. Don’t be greedy.

I stuck my tongue out. Here, you can have it. I don’t know how much of that you understood with my tongue dangling out, but you reached over and I felt your finger press against me. I drew my tongue back. The taste of smog, sweat, and you spread through my mouth.

I smiled. You moved your finger and with complete poise laid the speck of leather back onto your jacket.

There, all better.

Every morning you would shake me awake. Every morning I would watch you climb down half a hundred floors to disappear into the crowd and rummage through pockets and purses. There was little reason for anyone to notice you. You were nothing more than an urchin, one of a million other dirty kids who would scheme, squabble, and steal each day away. I watched you stride into an ocean of people, and then I would retreat back to bed and count out the seconds until you came home or I fell asleep. When I woke up it would be dark and you would be home, counting out cash on our plastic table. Sometimes you wouldn’t be so lucky and I would come back to see bruises and cuts on your face. One time I came up and saw you trembling in the corner, a broken finger held up to the light. There had been a man, you said. One who had seized your finger and without waiting cracked it as casually as a walnut. You smiled.

He said it was a warning.

I helped you splint the finger and cradled your head that night, pretending that I did not feel you tremble. We shared a bed but you would never stay long. It would be 3 in the morning and I would wake up to find your impression next to me. It wasn’t me, you said. It was the mattress. It was too cheap, too rough, too small. It was a treat to watch you, who had slept on concrete for most of your life, complain about a foam bed. I wasn’t offended. How could I be? You did so much of your dreaming awake.

Months passed. Then a year. Maybe another. There were no seasons in Shenzhen. It was hot and muggy and it rained. My hair grew out long enough for you to cut it, and then long enough again where I couldn’t see where you had messed up. The acid patches on my scalp disappeared under a new canopy of hair and although I was relieved to look at myself in the mirror, I found myself missing the burns. Some morning I woke up and it seemed like that night had never happened. My dreams were endless amalgamations of shouting and lights. Sometimes I was back in the alley with the gun kicking into my palm. I smelled blood and when I closed my eyes I woke up to another silent morning.

I started going back to sleep earlier, my head hitting the pillow seconds after you shook me awake. I barely even paid attention to the city anymore. What did it matter when I was so far away from everything? I recited whatever I could remember in Punjabi. Every once in a while I would put my sari and ghungroos back on and force myself to dance. None of it felt right on the carpet. I did my best to remember my family. But when I cried now it was the loss, rather than the memory that caused my grief. I was losing my past and replacing it with a two-bedroom apartment.

I rededicated myself to cooking. I made dal. I made roghan ghosht. You never complained about either but I think you preferred the roghan ghosht. It was hard to tell if you disliked anything. Every time you ate it would be with a frenzied determination, a race to clean the plate. I had the feeling that I could have served you stale bread and you still would’ve dived into it. You always asked me what I needed after a meal. What kind of meat. What kind of rice. We spoke of spice and this time we argued. What’s the point, I said. Why bother telling you anything when you never pay attention to what you eat.

You said that was unfair.

I said that you brought me chili powder instead of curry powder.

A pause.

You asked me what the difference was.

Another pause.

You asked me what I wanted.

You knew what I wanted. You knew what I needed. I wanted to leave this room. I wanted to go outside.

I wanted to walk in my city.

The denim you gave me buried my body. It rolled off of my limbs and transformed my stature from graceful to awkward, my height from imposing to gawky. The jacket sleeves bulged and wrinkled around my wrists. Patches of my jeans had been ripped off, and I was convinced you were teasing me when you told me it looked better that way. You opened the door for me and I stepped out of the apartment. My feet felt odd with boots on them. I looked around myself and for a moment I was afraid.

Then I was running down the hallway. I heard you yelp behind me, and you were sprinting after me. I jumped past the elevators (all of them broken, forever waiting for a repairman) and smashed into the stairwell like a comet. I felt my feet skid on the landing and couldn’t help but laugh as I slammed into the wall. I shoved myself off and took the second flight of stairs in a single leap. I was about to get a running start for the third flight when you caught me around the shoulders.

Please.

You took my hand.

Let’s slow down.

I saw the fire escape next to us, dozens of wrecked landings stretching away from the building. The windows in front of them were open. A little too much enthusiasm on my part and I would’ve thrown myself outside. I shrugged and we walked the rest of the way down. I could see the sun rise as we went down each flight. I met our neighbors for the first time. Some were in leathers. Others were not. Half a dozen exiles from the Nigerian Enclaves were huddled with each other on one floor, muttering in Hausa. A street samurai perched on a set of concrete steps, her katana balanced between her knees and a cigarette dangling between her lips. A plastic bag full of milk cartons rested beside her. A shirtless man with a shotgun stood guard outside of an apartment. He gave you a friendly nod as you walked past.

You had told me about the apartment block before, hushed fairy tales as we both drifted off to sleep each night. A dozen local gangs fought for territory over our block, each given a crumb of legitimacy by a perpetually drunk landlord. The building was registered under his name, he took care of the bills, and no one knew what would happen after he died. Maybe the gangs would take over rent. Maybe the entire block would shut down and we’d be left without plumbing or air conditioning. Maybe someone new would come in and own the place. You never knew, and to be fair neither did I. We passed through the lobby, a dust-ridden room with a set of overflowing trash cans, and walked through the front door.

Then we were out.

I had forgotten how exhilarating it was to be with other people, the sheer press of humanity that was on the street. I was instantly lost. You tugged me forward, letting a joyous whoop out as we ran. My feet slapped against asphalt and it seemed fantastical that I was leaving the apartment behind, miraculous that I could look back and see it grow smaller. Something rattled against my chest and I gave a sound that was half sob, half laugh.

You asked me if I was okay.

I said I was great.

We walked into the same market I had seen you filch from, your fingers drawing mine apart and forward. You leaned towards me and whispered.

Now, if you want to steal, you’re gonna have to be quick.

You knew that this was going to be easy for me. The vendors had become used to you, had come to expect you. Every eye on the market was locked onto you while I drifted in a trance, savoring each sniff and plucking pouches as if I were dancing again. There was a rhythm to the day, a beat to our adventure that made our actions irresistible. By the time I left the market my pockets bulged with enough spices to cook meals for years to come. You came from somewhere and took my hand. You made a joke about chili powder and told me I was going to love what came next.

You led me towards a train station. The station, like most “public” buildings in Shenzhen, looked to be on the verge of collapse. We walked under jagged chasms in the glass ceiling, flakes of ash slipping through, and past tight clusters of bullet holes which sprouted from sheet metal walls. A row of horseshoes hung over the entrance to the station, amateur metalwork signifying them as Triad products. You told me to look down and pretend like nothing was happening. This was difficult, because something definitely was happening. This was the first time I had left home in a year and we were walking towards the men I had killed.

The men who had killed my family.

The enforcers were all wrapped in the same green jackets, bound so tight around their bodies it seemed to be throttling them when they stretched. They looked bored, self-content, and utterly blind as we walked by, only pausing to take a handful of yuan from you before directing us to wait on a platform. You kept an arm around me as we waited inside a crowd, but no one seemed particularly interested in us there either. I realized that this is what you must have always felt like, an urchin at the margins of attention. I also allowed myself to consider, for a moment, that maybe the enforcers didn’t care about me anymore.

Another half sob, half laugh. You held me tighter. Some part of me wanted to run home. Another part of me wanted to shoot them. Instead, I let you hug me until the train pulled in.

The neighborhood looked like shit.

The train let us out near a set of warehouses, towers of corrugated metal and rust which seemed to lean over us as we walked by. None of them looked like places we would be allowed into, so I kept following and you kept leading me as the warehouses faded away to metal shacks, and those faded away into crumbling condos. Lake-sized potholes began appearing in the street, almost wiping out entire blocks. You kept a grip on my hand and led me around them, pausing to show me the more colorful examples. One crater was filled with fluorescent orange liquid, the smell of burnt rubber and licorice wafting up to our noses. You reached inside your pocket and gave me a handkerchief to hold over my nose.

It started raining. You stopped and pulled an umbrella out of your backpack, unfurling it with a grunt and a snap. The handle was steel and the cover was large enough that it could fit both of us underneath it. Each of us clasped the handle and we moved with the umbrella between us. Most other neighborhoods in Shenzhen would’ve had rain guards or tarps strung over the street. I looked around us and didn’t see anything but rain. I asked you where we were and you gave an answer that sounded more like a groan than a word.

Longhua.

I had never heard of it before. You told me that no one lived here now. I asked you what that meant. You told me that everyone left when the rains got bad, when the gutters broke up and everything under this neighborhood started flooding up into its people. You told me that no one liked to be here anymore. You told me that meant it was ours now.

I saw the smile on your face. You were an American. Your bones were buried in half the trenches across Europe. Your boots conquered deserts and scaled mountains. Your footprints lay on the moon, and each night as we fell asleep in our apartment you would raise one finger above my head and level it at the sky. There, you would murmur. Do you see it?

We were there once.

The rain was a torrent now, heaven’s kingdom collapsing above us. Each bolt of lightning was a slap across our retinas, each roar of thunder a warning through our bones. Waves of acid would lash across the umbrella and threaten to rip it out of our hands. The lakes around us were overflowing and as we walked through rising puddles you began to sing.

He was just a rookie trooper and he surely shook with fright,

He checked off his equipment and made sure his pack was tight,

He had to sit and listen to that awful thunder roar,

He ain’t gonna walk no more!

A pop rang through the orange crater, some chemical reaction causing it to burst and shower the street with citrus droplets. A handful landed on the umbrella and exploded into puffs of smoke. I saw a hole emerge above us, a gap in the canvas the size of my fingernail. You shook your head from side to side as rain landed in your hair.

He counted long, he counted loud, he waited for the shock,

He felt the wind, he felt the cold, he felt the awful drop,

The water from the sky spilled out and wrapped around his legs,

And he ain’t gonna walk no more!

My hands were gripped so tight I could feel them cramping. Each step forward threatened to tear the umbrella out from above us, land us in so much acid that neither of us would even be able to scream before we were boiled out. Rain drops landed against my fingers and I snapped my teeth together as my skin started to burn.

The tarps swung around his neck, the handle cracked his dome,

His skin fell off and tied in knots around his skinny bones,

The canopy became his shroud, he tumbled to the ground.

And he ain’t gonna walk no more!

A flash of lightning passed above us, outlining the street through shades of bright light and refracted rain. We were marching towards a hunched over wreck of a building. The glass walls that made up its entrance were melting into slag, but the columns that supported it seemed stable. We stepped off of the street and onto stone that had once been polished flat but was now jagged with erosion. What must have once been benches were arrayed to either side of us, warped and bloated pieces of wood. A piece of sediment got flung across the courtyard and splattered onto your jeans. You ignored it and marched us into the building, letting loose with one final chorus.

Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,

He ain’t gonna walk no more!

We passed into the building and you angled the umbrella behind us. I let go of the handle and rubbed at my fingers, trying to massage them back into working order. I had a constellation of circles burned into the back of one hand but nothing else in terms of exposure. My feet were still dry and by some miracle my jeans weren’t soaked. I turned to see you limping deeper into the building.

Where are we going?

You laughed. Gory, gory.

I’m serious. You need help. I walked over and looked at your leg. The piece of sediment had smeared itself across your left thigh. Your jeans were soaked, the denim clinging to your skin. You’re going to get burned, I told you. You’re burned right now.

What a hell of a way to die.

We were passing a marble counter which had been smashed apart. Two monitors still stood upright on a desk, hundreds of little holes burned into the screens from acid. A thin layer of rainwater coated the floor and sloshed as we walked forward. The floor rose as we moved through a row of metal detectors. The entire building was pitch black. You rummaged through one of your pockets and brought a flashlight out. A click later and I saw what this place had been.

A museum.

A block of wood the size of a truck had been carved into a herd of horses, hooves cycling through the air as the moisture caused their features to molt. I stared at the closest mare, its nostrils collapsing inward to form a wet crater in the center of its face.

How did you find this?

I explored.

Wooden paneling rose around us. Most of the designs had been so damaged I couldn’t recognize them, but I still spotted the occasional tiger or dragon, porcelain laid into the design to give them shining eyes or teeth. We turned as I saw lights reflecting off of the floor, a set of electric lamps in a clearing. You turned to me and bowed.

Tada.

Blankets had been piled and stretched out over the floor. You fell back onto them and started wiggling out of your pants. I looked around and saw that we were in the middle of an exhibition hall, glass display cases lining either side of the hallway. I took my boots off and stepped onto the blankets, wiggling my toes into the cotton. They were stained but soft, and I found myself taking my socks off as well. Water bottles were scattered over the blankets, and I saw chips and jerky stacked on one side of the room. The closest display panel had a tree inside, leaves glimmering underneath the light. I blinked. The leaves were tinted glass, threaded onto cloth branches. The blossom buds were made out of pearls, and flowers were inlaid with yellow gemstones for pollen. I tapped at the glass.

You can touch it, you know.

Your jeans were off, revealing an ugly purple blotch over your thigh. I watched you splash water over your leg, wiping it down with a rag. I pulled your handkerchief out.

Here, let me.

I pressed it down against your leg, hands tracing the tendon that ran down the inside of your thigh and bisected the burn. Your skin was bright and blistered. I heard you hiss as I brought the handkerchief down.

I meant the tree. You can touch the tree.

I grabbed your canteen and splashed more water over your leg. I would break it, I murmured.

You wouldn’t.

I narrowed the handkerchief down to a square inch of fabric, rounding the curve of your leg. I rested an elbow on your stomach for balance. I circumvented the rash, letting the water run over it instead of into the wound. I felt you vibrate as you spoke.

That’s good.

Mhmm.

There’s a surprise for you in my bag.

Hmm? I tilted my head, the lobe of my ear brushing against the crest of your belly, crossing over your navel. You giggled when my hair tickled you. I pressed my face into your body and gave a quick snort. You laughed and wiggled as I started to pull your underwear down, working it between your knees.

Did that hurt?

No. You were breathless. It doesn’t. Your hands cradled either side of my head and brought me forward. The taste of smog, sweat, and you spread through my mouth. I pressed forward as you spread your legs apart. Thunder rocked through the building and I could feel you push back against me with each rumble around us. Your fingers dug furrows through my hair, plowing through keratin and dead skin as you moaned.

Your leg shuddered and kicked out. You let a yelp out as a row of blisters scraped against my shoulder. I pulled back.

You okay?

Yeah. Your voice sounded hoarse. Just surprised me, that’s all.

I perched myself onto my knees and grabbed another water bottle. The burns were still bright, but they hadn’t gotten any larger. You told me not to worry and I asked you to lie back down. I dabbed at the blisters and sniffed.

Did you put on perfume?

Your elbow covered your face. Just in case.

I leaned down and sniffed again. You smelled like vanilla and saffron, with an edge of burnt skin and acid rain. How did you even afford this?

You looked down at me. Afford?

I laughed and rocked myself back so I could see you. Sprawled on the blankets like this, you reminded me of the cats that used to lounge around my stall. Eyes slitted and bodies sprawled, they came alive each dinner and purred around our legs. I hooked a finger around your shirt and started pulling it up.

The first tattoo was imprinted below your ribs, the surface of a moon pockmarked with old scars and patches of freckles across your chest. If I leaned in I could see the outline of a footprint against your sternum. I planted a kiss across it. You were slipping your jacket off, layers of leather folding as I kept pulling your shirt up. I found a family of rabbits that bounded over your shoulders. One of them sat on the moon.

Where’s the woman? I traced the rabbit out with my finger. Where’s the woman on the moon?

Oh I’m looking for her, you sighed. We were there once and we couldn’t find her. We just left a flag and some footprints instead. You lifted your arms above your head and I slipped the shirt off. A pair of stars lay inside the hollow of your neck. I frowned. I hadn’t ever noticed those before.

What are they?

Those? You smiled. Those are just freckles. You lifted one hand up and started to unbutton my shirt. I’m sure if we looked at you too, we could find some.

I pulled my arms through my sleeves and let the shirt and jacket drop away from me. The jeans came next, and although you told me again how the holes made me look better they still looked like trash to me, slipping off of my legs. I rolled into the carpet and laughed at how soft it felt. There was so much space. At home it always felt like I was pinned next to you, with your arm around my shoulder and our heads nearly butting together. This time when I went to you it was by choice, not necessity. My fingers hovered over the hollow of my neck. Well, I asked, do you see them?

I don’t know. Your face hovered an inch above mine. Let me take a closer look.

We kissed, and I swore that I could taste vanilla and saffron on your lips. You rolled on top of me and inched down my body, lips brushing and pushing against my skin. Each time you spoke I could feel a pocket of warm air burst against my stomach.

Not yet. Not yet.

Your hair spanned the valley between my hips. I watched it dip lower and when I felt your tongue it was as if I were nailed to the spot, my body plucked into the moment. I felt resonant and fragile and when you raised your head to look at me I felt like my chest would burst open and I would hand you my heart, my life. Everything that was me, my entire memory set in print against that one horrible night, and I would surrender it all if you asked me to.

And I waited for you to speak, to brush more warm air across my body or lower your head down and climb with me. But I watched you reach over and flip your bag open, and when you spoke you said:

You never asked what the surprise was.

I heard metal clink. I saw my ghungroos in your hand.

What’s that for?

Your grin pressed into my hip. Your sari’s in here too.

Okay. What’s that for?

You pushed yourself up and pointed one hand over my head. I turned and saw a wooden platform deeper into the room. A podium was tipped over behind it, followed by a pair of shattered vases. There, you murmured, do you see it?

The platform had been polished, I realized. Not a speck of dust lay on it. I looked back at you. You cleaned this?

Yeah, a smile plastered across your face.

My sari won’t even fit me anymore.

I bought a new one! You reached inside your bag and started bringing out silk, silk I know you couldn’t afford. How long had it taken you to steal this? To find the right place, clean and secure it so that you could watch me dance.

Alone.

I looked around me. A set of electric lamps cast shadows against the walls. The thunder had faded, now only followed by an irregular patter of rain. Cracks spread through the ceiling, sections of stained plaster and mold patterning the roof.

Alone.

Hmm? You looked up at me. What’s that?

I asked you to let me walk in my city.

Yeah, you nodded. I should still have your spices in here as well.

I was thawing, a fire swirling through my chest. My neck was flushed and I felt like I was choking as I spoke. You thought I wanted spices.

Your eyes glimmered. Your mouth drifted open. I thought—

I would’ve been so happy, I realized. So happy here, alone, in a larger room. So happy to have your arm around me, to have your body against me, and pretend to give myself to you.

How much of myself did I have?

I wore your clothes, lay in your blankets, bathed myself in your light. I lived where I was allowed, cooked what you brought me, and when you wanted to I would stand and dance for you, my audience of one. And then I would go back.

And no one else would know.

I stood. I put on the clothes you had given me. The buttoned shirt, the ragged leather, and the torn jeans. The sari lay around you, the ghungroos still in your hands. I walked to the platform. My feet touched bare wood for the first time in years. I shuddered at the sound that my steps made. The sound that the ghungroos would have made. I turned to you and remembered what you had looked like, back when we met for the first time. Eyes wide open, shoulders set in. Like you were afraid of your interest. You came into my life as a pilgrim, dedicated yourself to me like an artisan.

You loved me.

I raised my voice and did my best to sing as you did.

Let freedom ring.

I didn’t look at you as I walked away. I didn’t turn when you called. I didn’t flinch when I walked out of the museum and the last specks of rain from the storm hit me, pinprick burns peppering my cheeks. I kept moving and soon enough the pain was nothing more than a memory, a discomfort that faded with distance.

Like tearing off a band-aid.

You weren’t there when I got home.

I knew you wouldn’t be there. I knew when I left the museum, cradling the sari between my arms. Something had been broken between us, a measure of trust which could never be repaired. But force of habit demanded I be shocked by your absence. You were home. Every night I would return from scavenging, stealing, and begging for whatever I could and you would be waiting for me. To open the door and find the other side empty seemed terrifying to me. I put my thumb to my chest, rubbed the patch that you had kissed. How had that only been an hour ago? You were here. We were together.

I made myself sit down on our bed. It was a chasm now, a canyon where your body should have been. Short and forceful breaths erupted from my nose. I pushed off and stalked the room, frustrated that there was so little space to move around. You had told me two rooms was enough for the both of us, but a hundred did not keep you from leaving me. I covered my eyes and tried to imagine what you had thought, what you had wanted when you left me.

Why had I not been enough?

My feet were moving again and before I knew it I was in the hallway. I padded down the stairs and past swarms of crickets that gathered around milk cartons. Ngozi had been scattering them earlier in the afternoon, distributing little cardboard houses full of spoiled fruit and soggy paper. She was a street samurai who had come here to pick up protection jobs from the Nigerian exiles, only to get saddled with cricket farming. A kilo of crickets could be deep fried in honey and feed a dozen people. I had once brought a bag home for you, but you had never gotten over the skin. Like peanut wrappings, you said.

I saw Ngozi on the next landing. She was pinching the cartons shut and placing them back into her plastic bag. I gave her a nod and she put her hand onto her katana. A reputation of pickpocketing never quite goes away. The city lights shed a hundred different colors across her eyes. I think you would’ve liked to see this. To appreciate the city, and to see how it fragmented onto us. How it made even the little things beautiful. I maintained my distance but called out to Ngozi.

“Do you find people?”

The street samurai didn’t move. The crickets kept chirping. I ran a hand down the sari that was still slung over my shoulder. Your sari. “Like missing people, people that went away.”

Ngozi looked at me and I caught that signature superiority, that look of arrogance that seemed to define so many of the Enclave’s offspring. I would’ve thought exile to be a humbling experience, but she regarded me in the same vein as a disobedient child or a particularly stubborn pet.

“Some people don’t want to be found.”

I looked at her, unsure of where she was leading me. “I can pay.”

Ngozi motioned to the bag around her arm. “One night of this gives me ten thousand yuan. I never have to draw on anyone but petty pickpockets.” A pause meant for me. “You can’t give me enough to outweigh that, and I don’t think you’d want to if you could.”

I must’ve looked odd, because she let a sigh out and unsheathed her katana completely. She let it rest against my boot and I found the sheen of the blade to be mesmerizing, the gentle pressure against my foot terrifying.

“If I wound this up I could gut you.” She laid the katana flat. “If I swung this I could beat you.” She paused. “Do you want your person gutted or beaten?”

“No.” I swallowed. “But you don’t have to hurt them, you just need to—”

“—watch them?” Ngozi cocked her head. “Keep them?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You meant it,” she said. “You thought it. But to see is not simple, and to be seen is not gentle.” She sheathed her sword. “You want someone to solve your problems.”

This seemed like a very reasonable statement to me. “Who wouldn’t?”

Ngozi stared at me. Definitely a disobedient child. “You are convicted by your culture, ruined from birth. No sermon may save you now.”

“You won’t help me?”

“I cannot,” she said. “Not when you are unable to help yourself.”

“Asshole.” I said. “Motherfucker. You’re an exile. Not even your trash enclave wants you now. You collect insects for a paycheck.”

“I collect insects for food.” Ngozi said. “I use the paycheck to keep working, to keep feeding my people. You and your people live your lives for scraps of paper and slivers of metal.”

“We live for America.”

Ngozi barked out a laugh. “Even worse. You fight for a nation half a world away. You claim to live for something you have never touched, never even seen the edge of.” She was grinning now, a lopsided affair that made her mouth seem too large. “Do you know why you call yourself Little Texas?”

“We’re not little.”

“You are,” she said. “It’s the only part of the name that’s true. No other wawa lands in this Godforsaken city and pretends that they’re somewhere else. You think I look around and call this—” she motioned towards the milk cartons around her “—Nigeria? Only idiots like you go on pretending to be cowboys and cowgirls, wearing stupid hats and using broken guns.” She pointed towards my holster. “When was the last time you shot that thing?”

Six clicks in an alley, the jackets slicked red with blood. You were outlined by the flame. I remembered the barrel’s gleam. I looked up at Ngozi. “The last time I wanted someone dead. When’s the last time you swung that sword?”

“Every night,” she said. “And no one dies.”

I frowned. “So what’s the point?”

“That is the point,” Ngozi shook her head. “No one dies. We all live.”

“So y’all are cowards!” I laughed. That made sense. She wouldn’t even take money to find someone, nevermind fight them. “No wonder you got thrown out. No wonder you hide from home, too ashamed to see your families—”

My head smashed into concrete, bile burning at the back of my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I gurgled and Ngozi loosened her elbow, letting my head fall forward to meet her eyes. Her sword was still sheathed. Her hands were pinning me against the wall. When she spoke her words were neat.

“We came here for peace.” Her forehead brushed against mine. “For silence. Can you imagine that? A world so loud that all you can do is hold your breath and dive into Hell? A world where it’s easier to pretend to be dead than at war? Surely you can’t, because you speak as if you want war.”

“In America—”

She took a step back and slapped me. “Stupid,” she said. “Stupid and crazy. Too delusional to realize where you are. You drink for America. You kill for America. You die for America, and all the world sees is another tide of leather and liquor, bleeding for a dream.”

I stared at her, stunned. I wasn’t insulted by her words as much as I was surprised. She chose to attack us on the things we were most proud of. “Of course this isn’t America. We know that.” I looked into her eyes, straining to understand what she was trying to say here. “We don’t live in America, we live for America.”

“Then why aren’t you there?”

“Because we’re here.” I cocked my head. Was she stupid or insane? “We can’t be there.”

Ngozi began to pick up the rest of the milk cartons. Her motions were staggered, hesitant. Her forehead was creased. “So you sit here and die instead? You don’t even try to leave?”

“Why would I leave America?”

“You aren’t in America!” She let out an explosive sigh. “Lord above, I should have known better to speak to idiots.” She slung her plastic bag into the crook of the arm and walked down towards the next landing. “Go drink. Go die. Just don’t bother me anymore.”

I watched her walk down towards the next set of nests, and debated whether or not to go back to our—

My.

Room.

I kept following her. She paid me no mind, and when I drew level with her I felt tempted to stomp on one of the milk cartons littered on the floor. I may not have understood everything she was trying to tell me, but I heard more than enough to know I was being insulted. The katana was still at her waist, though, and she kept her body between me and any of her crickets on the floor. I passed her and padded down into the lobby.

I was walking during an intermediary period of the night, after people had finished their dinners but before they were fully making an effort to go out again. Bars were well lit but mostly empty, night clubs struggling to life as their employees began setting up. I passed through the front door of one and took a breath. Wet air and cigarettes. I turned my head from side to side, spotting nothing but a pair of dogs fighting around a trash can. It would only get busier from this point on.

I drifted to the first counter I saw and ordered something to drink. Alcohol was foreign to me, an expense that was out of bounds when I was trying to sustain the both of us off of petty theft. My eyes lingered on some of the wines on display, my mind considering which one you would’ve liked the most. What we could’ve described the flavors as.

The glass they set down in front of me was small and putrid. The liquor hit hard and fast. It burned like rain water and tasted like tar and licorice. I felt my tongue kick back in my throat and blinked as my eyelids hazed together with tears. I dropped a pocketful of coins onto the counter and went wandering to another bar.

Their alcohol wasn’t any better.

Blurred lights danced across my eyes and loud noises deafened me. My feet walked their own rhythm. My lips pressed together after each drink and I could feel my stomach grow warm. The streets were filling fast and I pressed onwards towards a familiar sight.

I hadn’t set foot in the pub for years. I saw the owners sometimes, when I was out and about. They would be haggling for prices at the market or smoking a Carroll’s during their lunch break. They wouldn’t exactly ignore me, but none of us were stupid enough to start a conversation. I would nod and they would bob the cigarette up and down. The lady would grunt sometimes as I passed. Nothing more than an acknowledgement, but it was always enough for me to know I hadn’t been sold out.

My boots scuffed against the entryway as I entered the pub, noting both the jingle and the claymores which remained above my head. The green lasers brushed across my hair and I saw to my relief that the building was empty. I got the feeling that this place didn’t see much business, its customers isolated to the other exiles and misfits of the neighborhood.

The woman already had her gun out this time. She trained it on me as I approached the counter.

“Leave.”

I collapsed onto the counter instead. My face was pressed into the lacquered wood, my hair growing wet from spilled beer and dew. The pub was cooled to near freezing and some distant part of my mind wondered how the owners could wear t-shirts without shivering. The man had come out from the kitchen and was speaking to the woman. Their words were terse. Your sari was still slung over my shoulder, and I imagine that the sight of me was odd enough to attract glances from outside. Glances meant attention, and attention stressed them out. So the next nudge was harder, more of a shove. I looked up and they witnessed my face.

“Jesus,” the man said. “What happened?”

That’s why I came here. That’s why I trusted these two. The bartenders had pretended not to notice. Ngozi had been so caught up in her own superiority to care. But these strangers, these pub owners who had extorted my money and told me to go away, they cared enough to be surprised. Cared enough to ask.

“Are you okay?”

In the right light I could’ve passed it off as a birthmark. In the wrong light it looked like someone had microwaved my face together. Burns splotched over the right side of my face, ranges of blisters and torn skin that ran over my jaw and onto my neck. It was my fault, really. The rain had stopped after you ran away, but I had been in such a hurry that I had tripped into one of the puddles I felt so confident in navigating earlier. The song was gone. The silence was painful. I was crying. Tears washed down my face and I had that vicious little satisfaction, that voice in my head that told me the burns couldn’t be that bad if I was crying over them. I struggled when the woman approached me with her handkerchief. She grabbed me and began methodically stripping me down.

You—” she pressed the rag against my neck, “—need to find somewhere else to cry. People are noticing.”

I shook my head. A handful of yuan made its way onto the countertop. “Food.”

“Not here.”

“Root beer.”

“Not now.”

I paused, blinking the tears away. “Information.”

The woman sighed. “What?”

I looked up into her face, that broad span of weather-beaten skin and tired eyes. “Do you find people?”

She brought the rag down again. I groaned as she nearly broke skin. I was tender, burned and aching. She dunked the rag into the sink and dredged it back out for another pass over my shoulder. The man was walking out to pull the shutters down. I watched as the “OPEN” sign was turned off.

“You’re going to have to pay for this, you know.” The woman wrung the rag out. She was careful to wash her hands off afterwards. “The lost business.”

There wasn’t another soul in the bar. I fumbled through my pockets for more yuan. My fingers were scabbed over and touched with acid burns. It made everything a little more numb and a little less real. I emptied my pockets out onto the counter and looked back up at the woman. Her eyes were pinned to my shoulder. A line of scalps hung behind her. A single nail had been driven through the thickest part of skin in each one, iron punctuating the callus. The back wall of the bar was paneled with wood and slats of iron. I began to realize how strange this place was. “Who are you guys?”

“Are you trying to ruin yourself tonight?”

“No one even goes here. You don’t even fit in.”

“Why do we want to fit in?” The man had a club dangling from his belt, notched iron with spiked nodules crowning its tip. They were speaking to each other now, communicating in a language that reminded me of the pidgin speak you and I lapsed into sometimes, the tide of shared homonyms and cognates we swirled into. Their voices were rocky and their words guttural. One of them grabbed me by the shoulder and eased me out of the chair. The other grabbed me by the hand and the next thing I knew I was being bundled off of my stool. The woman draped my leather jacket over me. I heard the door open and felt the humidity settle over me, a lukewarm carpeting of mist. My eyes were focused on the concrete below us. A thousand little cracks and shards torn out of the ground. Splatters of beer, urine, and blood marked our path.

Ngozi was sitting in the lobby of the apartment when we entered. She had a book open between her knees and slapped it shut at the sight of us.

“No,” she said. “Not here.”

“I live here,” I slurred. I did my best to stand up. The man and the woman kept their hold on me, kept me from pitching over and ruining what was left of my face. Ngozi blinked as she registered me.

“Yes,” Ngozi nodded. “But these two do not.”

“They’re okay,” I said. “The man and the woman, they’re—”

“Hush,” the man told me. He turned towards the street samurai. “We’re just here to help the kid, we’re locals—”

Ngozi laid a pair of fingers against the haft of her katana. The man paused.

“You know who we are?”

“Hmm.” Ngozi scowled. “I keep thirty-seven exiles from the Nigerian Enclave safe within this apartment. You think I would not notice the strays across the street? The scalps on their walls? The mines across their doorstep?” She shook her head. “No. You stay within your building. Make life easier for the rest of us.” She nodded towards me. “Leave the kid—” she spat the word out like a curse. “I will handle the rest.”

The man and the woman exchanged looks. The man bit his cheek. “A guarantee would be appreciated?”

Ngozi cocked her head. “A professional guarantee?”

“Naturally,” the man said. “One benefitting an exile.”

“Very well,” Ngozi sighed. “I give you my word as an exile, a brick which has been shattered from the road, a soul which has been lost from home. For the mistakes of the past, the promise of the future. Your charge will be safe and well tonight.”

The pair handed me over. I felt Ngozi’s arms wrap around me, steel tendons clasping across my chest. They were firm, but not uncomfortable. The woman bent in front of me and cupped my chin with one hand, brushed my hair back with another. I met her eyes and she smiled.

“I’m Eithne, by the way.”

“Huh?” I mumbled. The night had finally pressed down onto me, and I found it difficult to open my mouth as she leaned in.

“You don’t have to call me ‘the woman’, although he—” she tossed her head back, “—might still prefer ‘the man’. My name’s Eithne,” she said. I noticed that the man was already leaving, and Eithne began to step back. I reached out and patted my jacket.

“The sari. Where is it?”

“Oh.” The smile on Eithne’s face turned into a knot. “It’s okay. We’ll keep it for you. Come back tomorrow, okay?”

Ngozi hoisted me up the stairs as they left the building. I watched them walk into their pub. Neither of them looked back. Ngozi climbed at a steady pace, transferring me onto her back as she strode. The motion made me feel as if I were being rocked to sleep. I bent my face into the crease of her neck. I might have started crying, because Ngozi spoke.

“They’re keeping you safe.”

I didn’t much feel like speaking to her, not after she had mocked me and I had called her a motherfucker. I kept my head down and my eyes closed. Ngozi kept speaking.

“That sari was a target on your back, a signpost that no one would’ve forgotten tonight. I don’t know what you’ve done, I don’t care who you are, but if someone’s looking for you then they found you tonight.”

I could see moonlight across her neck. A slice of silver reflecting off of her skin. There was an entire world rotating above us, speeding through failed hab stations and a network of corporate satellites. A set of footprints would still be imprinted on the dust, followed by an American flag. I thought of the moon and felt the tears dry against my eyes. Who could doubt us?

We owned the sky.

The rest of the night passed in a trance. I remember our front door opening. I remember being set down into our bed, Ngozi’s hands stripping my jacket off and pulling the blanket over me. I remember calling for you.

I remember rolling over and vomiting off of the bed, an entire night’s worth of bad decisions and liquor dripping out of my face. I remember Ngozi cleaning me. She washed my mouth out with water and wiped the vomit away. She replaced whatever I stained with new sheets and clothing. She complained about oaths, about promises. She cursed herself, for this is what the cost of herself was.

A promise kept. A life sustained.

And when I was done vomiting, when nothing but specks of bile stained my lip, when I laid back on the bed with my eyes scrunched together and my chest heaving, Ngozi took a seat and watched me. She pulled her knees up to her chest and as the moon spilled through our slanted window, she pulled her book out and began to read me a story.

There were two brothers, she told me, who once left their house on a moonlit night. They went to the local pier and stole a canoe to go fishing. They dipped their oars into the water and pushed into the lake. As they rowed out further, the younger brother stopped and exclaimed.

My God, there’s silver!

The older brother looked and saw it glittering below the surface. He set his oar down and dived in, only to surface and hear his sibling screaming no, no, you missed it. The younger brother would point and the older brother would dive, but each time they met each other they continued to shout.

You’re pointing the wrong way!

You’re not diving far enough!

And as they fought each other and the silver continued to glitter on the water, the younger brother grew impatient and decided to dive in on his own. A moment of silence passed before both brothers emerged, sputtering and accusatory.

You blocked me!

You weren’t even looking at the right place!

And then their shouts became disjointed, their conversations fragmented by greed and frustration. When one would head back towards the canoe, the other would shout that there was a piece of silver, right there! And then they would both submerge. Their dives grew longer and further apart. And then the dives stopped. All that was left was a canoe bobbing in the lake and the moon shining across its surface. Silver ready for the taking.

Ngozi patted the book shut. She leaned over and whispered into my ear.

“Run.”

My face felt glued together the next morning. Half the blisters had burst overnight. Scabs ran up and down my chin before forming bridges of coagulated blood over my lips. I tore open skin when I opened my mouth, and I knelt over the sink to first vomit and then wash my face. I swore in a low cadence as I tried to scrub the blood off without hurting myself. My eyes had puffed up overnight and the entire world seemed to pulse with my heartbeat. I was starving, I realized, and I spared your bed another glance. I would make breakfast for you in the morning, wake you up a second time with a dish of eggs and toast. I looked out the window and tried to spot you along the crowd that bustled below our apartment.

I frowned.

The “OPEN” sign wasn’t on in the pub.

I looked up at the sky and noticed it was almost lunchtime.

A thunderclap split the street as the pub exploded. Rubble showered against my window, followed by a pair of blasting pins. I thought of those claymore mines, the green lights finally blinking red. I looked at the smoke-filled crater where the pub had once been and noticed something moving inside.

Another exit from the room, another dash down the stairs. People were gathering around and watching the street. Gunshots started echoing when I was halfway down and the stairwell emptied out as everyone ducked for cover. The crickets were still out.

Ngozi stood at the front door, a pair of bodies splayed out on the steps in front of her. I saw the green jackets that bracketed them and knew that it was Triad. The sword in Ngozi’s hand was shattered around halfway down. She held one hand up to the side of her face and blood was streaming down her arm, dripping onto the linoleum. She gurgled slightly as she spoke.

“I am a licensed associate, compliant with all fees and bylaws established in this neighborhood.”

I had moved up closer to the door, and saw the mingqi that was speaking to her. Its body was styled in the manner of a warrior, layered plates of titanium and steel melding outwards into alloy fingers. Soot and dust had stained most of its body. A litany of hairline fractures moved up and down its torso. The other half of Ngozi’s katana was stuck into its shoulder, creased into the joint of its armpit. The mingqi curled its arm back and slipped the blade out from its body. The blade was clean aside from a faint sheen of oil along its length. It gave a satisfied buzz.

Hmmm.

“I am prepared to provide monetary restitution,” Ngozi shifted to let the blood drain out of her mouth. “My life should not be required, given that this was in self-defense. They drew their weapons on me.”

The mingqi continued to examine the shard of steel, balancing between two of its fingers. I found myself mesmerized by the joints of its fingers, a hundred miniature cogs spinning in coordinated action. It traced the blade back up the groove of its arm and hummed. “That was a good slash.”

Ngozi nodded.

“Why?” The mingqi asked.

Ngozi’s cheek was crimson. Her fingers were glistening. She tightened her grip and when she spoke, her words were neat. “They told me there was a man inside the suit.”

“Hmm.” The mingqi chirped. “Maybe.” It flicked its fingers and the blade landed against Ngozi’s boot. “I remember your license. The skeptic. The daughter of pariahs.”

“Hsiao-nü.” Ngozi dropped what remained of her sword. “To sacrifice is a privilege.”

“To serve is an honor.” The mingqi gave a short bow. “I am truly sorry to disturb such a diligent daughter in this manner, but one of your neighbors attacked us. They set an explosive off.”

“Outside of my scope,” Ngozi said. “I operate in the service of the Enclave exiles within this building. Only they are under my protection.” She paused before offering her own, much longer, bow. “Excepting, of course, those who would do harm to your venerable organization.”

The droid started using its fingers to scrape the dirtiest parts of itself clean. “We came here today after hearing reports last night from an individual who once murdered three of our members. Unlike you, they lacked the proper grounding for their actions and did not offer any restitution for their crimes. We believe that this individual may live here.”

Ngozi nodded. “It would be an honor to assist you in finding this criminal.”

The mingqi ignored the blood that splattered at its feet. “They were in leathers, and quite injured from what I heard.” The droid gave its best approximation of a shrug. “They had a sari.”

Ngozi didn’t hesitate. I watched her turn around and point directly at me. The droid bounded off of concrete with a force that shattered the steps under its feet. One leap and it was in the foyer. I stared at Ngozi’s finger, looking up to catch her gaze. She met me without reservation and gave the barest tilt of her head.

Run.

I know that’s what she would’ve done. Smart as she was. She would’ve tried to find a way out. She would’ve started running before she had even seen the mingqi. Nevermind the steel hurtling at her. Nevermind the concrete around her. She would’ve run, bought herself a few previous extra seconds to feel good and useful. My hands looped around the handle in my pocket. It was made out of lacquered wood, the imprint of a star pressing against my skin. The barrel emerged as I took a step back to give myself a better shooting position. The revolver still shined. Five years and the barrel would not dull, would not let itself be silenced. I saw myself reflected in the mingqi’s visor. Another street rat wrapped in shoddy leathers and denim. Another gunslinger with steel and intent in their palm. I raised my hand and saw the mingqi make its second bound, leaping up the flight of stairs. It didn’t bother looking away. Why would it? It had survived a claymore to the scalp. A peashooter wouldn’t do more than scuff it.

I smiled. The reflection of my teeth were caught against reinforced plexiglass, distorted by a set of fluorescent lights which had started to dim well before I was born. Flecks of ivory stained across the mingqi’s forehead. I pulled the trigger.

I was glorious.

The bobbin thread had run out again.

I leaned back into my seat, sucking back a curse as the sewing machine stopped churning. The better half of a dress lay embroidered before me. I flipped a transparent pane of plastic at the bottom of the machine and pulled the empty bobbin out. Another waste of time. The entire point of the plastic window was to let me notice when I was going to run out of thread. Instead, my gaze had lingered somewhere between the dress and the ceiling.

I had gotten stuck thinking about you again.

It had been months since I had run away. It was hard to track time in a city with no seasons, but when I looked in the mirror I could still see the acid burns across my hair. Reminders of what I had run through to get away from the museum, the moats of acid and chemical waste that surrounded the neighborhood. Now they were nothing but a memory. Soon my hair would grow out again, and then I would wonder how long it had been since I had seen you.

The weeks after I left were too frantic to be fully conscious, a churn of hunger and desperation which turned me almost feral. First I had tried to filch my meals from the market stalls, but alleyway beatings had convinced me that I was not half the thief you were. So much of your talent had come from your ability to blend in, to lose yourself in that greater mass of humanity. I had spent years living a life that proved otherwise. I had spent so long inside of that apartment, so long with no one except you for company, that every part of me was noticeable. My posture, my stare, the very accent that tinged my words. I couldn’t take a nickel without half the block noticing. Everyone seemed to know what I was, but none of the labels felt right. Street rat. Mongrel. Pickpocket.

Those were your names.

I despaired that this was my fate. To simply become a less successful version of you. That I would continue to steal out of desperation and wear your leathers out of poverty. I strove to find a version of myself outside of your image, beyond your imagination.

I respooled the bobbin, keeping my eyes on the thread as I looped it across the base of the sewing machine and moved it up towards the needle. A hundred other machines beat out a chorus in the room, my coworkers moving in tune to produce and pack dresses into boxes.

Leaving Little Texas was easy. It could be crossed within a day, the entire district nothing but packed gunpowder and booze. When I got to the border I bartered your leathers and replaced them with a set of beaten khakis that stank and itched against my skin. They were filthy, but at least no one would recognize them. I could wander through the city as a stranger.

I saw flags spray painted across dumpster barricades, nationalities fortified inside apartment blocks with automatic turrets and steel machetes. I passed through mazes of street vendors who hawked fried rice and skewered meat. I reached the edge of Enclave territory and witnessed the Tower, a behemoth of concrete and fertilizer. Tiered farms were etched around its exterior, thousands of tons of produce overflowing to dangle between smog clouds. Every morning a hundred thousand voices would echo forth from the neighborhood to give praise to God. Dead bodies littered the streets around the Tower, most of them Triad enforcers. Armored convoys circled the building and every once in a while I would hear a ping as one of the Enclave’s snipers bounced a round off of a truck.

I kept my head down and moved on. I was tracing the outlines of an ecosystem, desperate to find some niche to survive in. Some role to call my own.

The sewing machine started once again. I perched myself against the table and fed the dress through, noting the stitching with satisfaction. Not perfect. Perhaps not even good. But even failure could be unique. The work itself was transient. I had learned through trial and error which of the districts across Shenzhen accepted newcomers, and which warehouses would keep to their word and pay. There were rumors of slave houses which lured prospective workers and chained them in place, charnel factories that gave forth more blood than sweat. Even when I found a safe one, the pay was meager at best. I remembered the pile of bills that you would smuggle inside of your jacket and realized for the first time what a nuisance we had been. How many people had we leeched off of for the sake of a spice rack?

A shrill horn went off to signal the end of the workday. I folded the dress over my arms and walked it to the nearest bin, pressing the fabric down before sealing the box. My coworkers were already forming lines around the exit. I loitered near the box and shifted from one foot to the other. As the minutes passed I tightened my movements, reducing each step sideways into a more efficient pirouette. I felt my foot slap against concrete.

I smiled.

[Issue 2025.74]

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