“Okay,” says Wai Lan. She heads out into the softly raining night with her suitcase, walking quickly in the opposite direction from the store. In her stealthy briskness she feels like a criminal, each step pushing away the burden of survival so that by the time she reaches the bus stop, she is glad to be emptied of everything but the anticipation of headlights streaking through the darkness. Years later, when she feels older and done with wanting, she might think back to this evening and remember the hard, unfriendly ground through her soles, the hopeful catch of air in her lungs as she counted her bus fare in her damp palm. And the small sting of sorrow she felt at the sight of the girl and the boy—how they looked to be melting into each other like candles under the bright kitchen light.

VII.

A feast has been laid out, the fires lit. The whole village has been invited. Over the years, stories had floated back of Yip Wai Lan’s latest scandals and misadventures. Tables of women marvel, suspicious: What does she want? She had nowhere else to go. Tables of men marvel, wary: Can you believe, she still wanted him. Can you believe, he still wanted her.

They were glad she’d left; they missed her, too.

In the years before Wai Lan’s return, Sing has been jealous. Of each object she has touched, each person she has passed, each person who has looked at her or not (though how could they not look at her), each word she has spoken that he has not heard.

Now inside the room, they can still hear the clanging celebration of the village, though they hardly notice it. Much as they do not notice the baying dogs, or the faint roar of the river, or the moon and its slow, striking clouds.

She sits next to the bureau. (The ink well is dry; the sheafs of paper rest in the drawer.)

Her palms balance in her red, beaded lap.

He thinks she looks strange: innocently stiff. She seems weighted down by the shiny, padded fabric. Though he has been wanting it for all these years, he is on the verge of forgetting that slender stroke of body underneath. He unhooks the button on his ceremonial collar, then moves her toward the bed by the shoulders as if she were a sleepy child. They sit on the edge of the bed. The oil lamp flickers a little, dies.

“Wai Lan, there is so much to get through,” he says.

“Let me do it,” she replies. Her voice is surprisingly large in the dark. She tugs open buttons and knots with bored familiarity.

She takes his hand and pulls it inside the fabric, resting it on her waist. His hand is cold, but she doesn’t flinch.