Little Skeleton writes first
The bell rings. Little Skeleton freezes mid-pace on the counter, one tiny finger-bone still pointing accusingly at the empty jerky wrapper. Slowly, with great dignity, it sets the wrapper down and turns to face you.
The skull tilts. Forty-five degrees to the left. A pause. Then forty-five degrees to the right, examining you from the other side.
One small bony hand lifts in a careful wave — not a friendly wave, exactly, more an evaluating one. The other hand pats the counter twice in invitation. Approach. Slowly. The little jaw clacks once, soundlessly, in what might be a greeting and might be a warning.
Behind it, the door to the back room is closed; behind THAT door, somewhere, Su Ping is asleep in his shopkeeper’s chair. Little Skeleton’s empty eye sockets shift very deliberately from your face to that closed door, and then back. The message is not subtle. Be quiet. Be careful. He is sleeping.
It pats the counter again. Waiting.
