We no longer left the pencil company. Only Ah-shin did anymore, taking our identification cards to retrieve our rations. The police came nearly every day, but your mother had learned how to handle them. You and I triple-checked our accounting. They wanted records of who we were selling to and how often.

“They fear the pencil,” Mother said quietly when it was only us around the dinner table. “None of the other stores are receiving as much scrutiny.”

“Stop talking,” my grandmother ordered, and we would eat our meager meal in silence.

My grandmother was right to monitor our talking. We often saw neighbors lurking close to the complex. Because we were grouped together, if one of us went out of line, the whole group could be punished. And we were such a strange family—the men gone, the women running the business—that it felt like all the neighbors watched us, waiting for a moment when we would slip and they might earn their reward.

Without anywhere to go, you and I took turns writing our little story. Though it quickly became depressing, to see our characters go through the same fears that we faced.

“It would be better if they could actually fight with their pencils,” I said as we tried and failed to think of what should happen next.

“Fight?” you repeated, amused. “Like if someone ran at us with a bayonet, we could parry them with a pencil?”

“No,” I said. I was excited by the idea forming. “What if they could still Reforge the pencil, same as us, but instead of bleeding it out, the pencil became armor over their hands! Like a layer of pencil heart, hard and strong, protecting their skin.”

You perked up and continued the fantasy.

“And if someone tried to kidnap them, they could just go, bam!” You clenched your first, then released dramatically. I could almost see it, armor snaking over your skin, erupting from your phoenix, a hardened shell, molded perfectly to your hand.

“Then they could sneak into those Japanese buildings,” I said, practically bouncing. “Nobody would suspect them because they’re just two young girls. But really, they’re powerful spies. And then they’d be behind the guy in charge, their armored hands at his neck, and he’d have no choice but to surrender, and the Japanese would leave, and we’d have our home back, and we wouldn’t have to worry about food or if our fathers will make it back or the people flocking the streets, or the buildings being bombed and tumbling down.”

You smiled. I smiled back. We spent the afternoon writing this new superpower into our characters, sending them on missions we never would have dreamed of before.

“Wait,” you said when the sun was setting. You had taken the pencil, stopped writing midsentence, the tip hovering over the paper. Then you crumpled the paper.

“What are you doing?”