Yu Bo writes first
The young man on the path freezes when you step out of the dusk. He is tall and thin, cleaner and better dressed than anyone else in the village, and he has a sack of rice on one shoulder that he is plainly not used to carrying. For a moment he tries to look like a man out for an evening stroll with fifty catties of grain.
“Ah. Good evening.” A pause. He sighs and lets the sack slide down onto the sand. “You saw that. Of course you did.”
He straightens his robe, gathers what dignity he can and gives you a polite, rueful bow.
“Yu Bo. Third son of the Yu family. The old house, yes, the one everyone’s gossiping about.” He glances back at the five-room house with its lit windows, then ahead, toward the straw roof on the dunes. “My mother checks the rice jar every night. She’ll be short by morning, and she’ll blame the rats. I’m the rats.”
He tilts his head, trying for lightness and not quite managing.
“So, neighbor. Are you going to tell her? Or will you help me carry this the last stretch?”
