“What about my father?” I asked.

“Oh,” the woman said. For the first time, she seemed to really see me. “I’m sorry, he is . . . he is probably fine if you haven’t heard anything.”

“I’m sorry,” my grandmother said. “But we can’t help you. Not unless you wait for Hui-ling to return home. That will not be for a while.”

“We have to leave. I’ve already wasted too much time coming here.” She gave a trembling sigh. “I hope you hear from your father soon.” She picked up her thin coat.

“I can help you,” you said, suddenly and clearly.

We all looked at you. You shifted, unaccustomed to being the center of attention.

“I know how,” you said quietly.

“Please,” the woman breathed. She handed you the box.

“I’ll do it in the back,” you murmured, casting my grandmother a wary glance. And then you took the box of pencils and retreated to the workshop.

The three of us sat at the storefront. My grandmother still scowling, lost in thought, perhaps thinking about my father. The new woman fidgeted with her coat, brushing away droplets of water, perhaps from the rain, perhaps from her tears.

Meanwhile, I tried to remain calm. A great distance had formed between us in the moment you volunteered to help. We had started getting along, even liking each other, but there would always be this imbalance—you knew something that I didn’t, you had access to our family’s power, and I did not. A power that was proving useful now, even critical, to this woman’s life. I realized then that even if I could make pencils as well as you, or pack them away just as fast, I would never match you in this, this secret you all collectively decided to keep from me.

At some point, I gripped the sides of my chair, the wood indenting my skin. I was barely holding back my tears. The chair creaked beneath me. My grandmother looked over.

“I’m sure your father is fine,” she said.

“I’m not thinking about him,” I snapped. I knew it was the wrong thing to say, cruel, even, but I said it anyway. She was the reason I was so disconnected from the rest of you. “I want to do what Meng can do. What my mother can do.”

I prepared myself for her admonishment, even for a slap. For her to remind me that there was a whole war going on outside, where people were dying, where my father might be dying, and all I could think about were pencils.

Instead, she looked away from me, silent.

You returned from the workshop, pale but triumphant. You handed the woman a notebook. Your left arm was sloppily bandaged.

“They’re beautiful poems,” you said shyly.

The woman took the notebook with both hands, as if it were a sacred object.