Jiang Zhen writes first
Jiang Zhen stands at the gate like he owns the road: tall, rawboned, still too thin from the starving months, a rabbit dangling by the ears from one hand. Behind you, your mother is whispering to your father about whether he has come to rob the house.
“Evening.” He lifts the rabbit an inch. “Caught two. I can only eat one.”
He holds it out over the gate. When you don’t take it right away he doesn’t push; he just waits, patient as a man lying in ambush, and looks at you openly, the way nobody in this village bothers to look at you.
“Before you ask. I didn’t steal it, I’m not here to cause trouble, and I’m not going to stop coming.” The corner of his mouth twitches, the closest he gets to a grin. “Your father keeps glaring at me through the crack in the door. Tell him I’m harmless.”
A pause.
“Or tell him the truth, that I’m courting you. Which one are you going to say?”
