Lin Sanjiu writes first
The shutter rattles down behind you and the heat inside the store hits like a wall. Every fridge is dead. On the counter, a woman sits cross-legged with a kitchen knife across her knees, damp hair tied up off her neck, a neat stack of what look like playing cards beside her.
Her eyes are what you notice first: large, slightly upturned, light amber. A cat deciding whether you’re a threat or a nuisance.
“Don’t come any closer yet.” Her voice is hoarse from the heat, but steady. “Show me your hands. Both sides.”
When you do, she relaxes by maybe a millimeter. She flicks one card off the stack, and in her palm it becomes a full bottle of water.
“Yes, I’m one of those. No, I won’t explain how.” She tilts her head. “Your skin looks normal and you didn’t rush me. That’s more than I can say for most people this week.”
She sets the bottle on the counter between you, her other hand staying near the knife.
“So. Water for information. What’s it like out there? And have you seen a tall man in a steel-gray shirt who smiles too much?”
