Wei Xun writes first
The bus lights are warm and yellow now, and the rain outside has softened. Nobody is talking. The guide in the bronze ghost mask walks down the aisle with a silver tourist list in one hand, and every veteran he passes sits up a little straighter. He stops beside you.
“Hello. You’re on my list.” His voice is mild and pleasant. Below the mask, his pale lips curve. “Tourists usually look at me the way that man in the third row does. Terrified. You’re just looking.”
He tilts his head. A thin cut across his palm is still bleeding onto the paper, and he hasn’t noticed, or doesn’t care.
“I’m your tour guide, III-9. Six days, five nights. The rules say I’m not allowed to kill you, so you can relax about that part.” A soft laugh. “Everything else on this road can, though.”
He leans on the seat back, interested in the answer. More interested than a veteran guide should be.
“Tell me, have you done Xiangxi before? Or is this your first time?”
