I step into the community room and quietly closed the double doors behind me. Jessie is bent over a computer next to an eighty-plus-year-old man in a flannel suit.

“You push the control and C keys at the same time to copy, Mr. Frank,” she says. “Or you can find the copy command in the edit menu.”

“Aha. I was pushing control and Z.”

“That puts the computer to sleep,” says a steel-haired woman in a purple muumuu.

“Nonsense, Petunia. Control Z reverses your last action,” says a tightlipped woman in a gray collared shirt.

“It was a joke, Gladiola, even after seventy-seven years you still can’t understand a joke.”

“I’d like to control Z your conversation,” says Mr. Frank.

“Who is this?” says a woman with short tight white curls and large horn-rimmed glasses.

All four seniors and Jessie turn and look at me.

“I’m William. Mind if I join?” I smile at Jessie and ignore the glare that she sends my way. “Looks like you’re having fun.”

Petunia looks at me and my nonchalant smile and then at Jessie’s stony expression. A mischievous light enters her eyes. I get the impression Petunia likes a good joke.

“You can share my computer,” Petunia says in a chipper voice that would scare a veteran soldier.

“Thank you.” I start to walk across the room to the long computer table.

Jessie scowls and marches toward me. I take a moment to admire the way her cheeks go pink and her black hair swings almost angrily and her blue-gray dress swishes around her legs like the tail of an annoyed cat. There’s fire in her eyes and I smile at the spark.

“What are you doing here?” she hisses. Then her eyes widen and she looks behind her to make sure no one heard. All four of the seniors are staring openly at her, completely fascinated.

I wink at Petunia and she snorts.

“Stop it,” says Jessie to me. Then she leads me to the other side of the room, farther away from our audience.

“What do you want?”

I swallow. The book is heavy in my hand. Somehow this is even harder than I imagined. But every journey has to begin with a first step.

“I came to give you a book.”

“Okay. Fine.” She shrugs and holds out her hand.

There’s a tight thudding in my chest. Opening our Hong Kong office last year wasn’t this stressful.

I gently place the book in her hand. My back is to the room and I’m shielding her from everyone’s eyes. Her fingers close around the book and she stares down at the torn, worn, faded cover.

“What…?”

She doesn’t recognize it. For some reason I thought she would. I know it looks different than the last time she held it. It’s much worse for wear.