The skies above us were tinged gray with pollution, but not the opaque brown that’s so often seen directly over the city. I led her into my small garden. Cucumbers dangled from a bamboo trellis I had made, nestled within their giant dark green leaves. We stepped between the tomato plants, their fruits small and marred. I stooped down, and she crouched with me as I selected a tomato, dusting it off, then taking a bite. More tangy than sweet. She stared as if I had plucked a rat off the ground and eaten that instead.

“The sky used to be blue,” I said, after I finished the tomato.

“That’s what my grandfather says.”

Grandfather. I’d never met my grandparents, didn’t even know their names. My paternal grandparents were long dead before I was born. As for my maternal grandparents, they lived in America, and I wanted nothing to do with them.

“He’s seen it, then?” I tried to keep my voice from rising. “With his own eyes?”

“He thinks so. But he was very young.” She ran her fingertips over the ridges and bumps of an orange tomato. “He says it feels like a dream when he remembers it.”

Sweat beaded at her temples, and there was a sheen of perspiration above her upper lip. I swiped my arm across my forehead. “I can’t believe how hot it gets,” she said, licking her mouth.

I mirrored her without thinking, tasting the salt on my tongue. “This is what summers are like in Taiwan when you’re not wearing an air-conditioned suit,” I replied and grabbed the woven basket near my feet.

“I’ll help you,” she said.

We spent the next twenty minutes in silence, filling the basket with imperfect tomatoes and cucumbers. The mountain breeze rustled the leaves around us, and the birds sang deep within the jungle’s thicket. When we were done, the you girl’s lips were leached of color, and wisps of black hair that had escaped from her ponytail clung to her damp neck.

Her breaths still came too fast, like a frightened hare’s. “I think we should go back inside,” I said, lifting the basket.

She rose with me. “I want to try one.”

I angled the basket, and her hand grazed over the tomatoes and cucumbers, touching them as if they were gems instead of meager crops. She finally selected an oblong tomato, redder than the others, and brushed a thumb over its skin before taking a bite. She immediately made a face and shuddered.

I laughed. “No good?”

“It’s more sour than I’ve ever tasted.”

I smirked. No doubt, she’d only ever had perfectly grown specimens. We walked back toward the house, and she appeared thoughtful as she finished the fruit.

“I like that it tastes . . . earthy,” she finally said. I saw her eyes sweep our surroundings as we approached the front of the lab.