"Zen-kun."
It was a girl's voice.
Not the deep, desperate tone of a woman standing on a wet city street. This voice was high. Thin. It belonged to the warm air of a quiet Tuesday afternoon.
Zenjiro sat in the dirt. He was seven years old.
The sun beat down on his black hair. Heat radiated from the dry playground sand. He held a smooth wooden stick. He dragged the sharp tip through the dirt. He drew a long, straight line. He dug deep to make a trench. He scooped loose sand away with his free hand.
Hina crouched across from him. She wore a yellow summer dress. Thick brown dirt smudged her left knee. She held a handful of green plastic soldiers.
"Move your guy," Hina said.
Zenjiro looked at the dirt battlefield. They had spent the last hour building a fortress out of packed wet sand and flat river stones. He dropped his stick. He picked up a red plastic tank. He pushed it across the dry sand. The heavy plastic treads left tiny, perfect ridges in the dirt. He pushed it up a small sand dune. He stopped the tank right in front of her barricade of green soldiers.
"Boom," Zenjiro said.
Hina flicked her wrist. She knocked her front line of soldiers over. They fell flat into the sand.
"I lost again," she said.
She didn't sound angry. She sounded hollow. Her voice lacked its usual sharp volume.
Zenjiro watched her. He tilted his head. Hina usually demanded a rematch immediately. She usually scooped up the plastic men and shoved them back into a rigid line.
Now, she just stared at the fallen green plastic. Her shoulders slumped forward and her chin dropped toward her chest. Her small fingers picked at the frayed hem of her yellow dress.
Something is wrong.
He deduced this purely from her posture. She was likely upset about something else. The game was just a distraction.
"Play again," Zenjiro said.
"No," Hina said. "I'm tired."
She wasn't tired. She had only been running for ten minutes before they sat down in the shade. The sun was still high and heer breathing was completely normal.
"You look sad," Zenjiro said.
Hina shook her head quickly. Her twin pigtails whipped through the heavy air.
"It's nothing."
Zenjiro did not look away. He stared directly at her face. Her lower lip trembled slightly. She bit down on it hard with her top teeth. Her eyes darted away from him and looked toward the tall metal fence at the very edge of the park. Then her gaze snapped back to the sand.
"Tell me," Zenjiro said.
"It's really nothing," Hina said. She grabbed a fistful of dry sand. She let the grains spill through her closed fingers. The sand piled up over a fallen plastic soldier.
Zenjiro stood up and dusted off his shorts. He stepped right over the red plastic tank. He stood directly in front of her. He blocked the sun and his shadow fell over her face.
"You keep looking at the fence," Zenjiro said. "You bit your lip and you don't want to play. Tell me what happened."
Hina sniffled. A single tear broke loose. It ran down her dirty cheek. It left a wet, clean streak on her skin.
"My brother is going to kill me," Hina whispered.
Zenjiro waited. He kept his hands in his pockets.
"I took his shiny card," she said. Her voice cracked. "The one with the gold dragon. He told me never to touch it. He said it costs a lot of money."
"Where is it?" Zenjiro asked.
Hina pointed a shaking finger toward the edge of the playground. A paved concrete walkway ran along the base of the metal fence. A heavy iron storm drain sat set deep into the concrete.
"The wind took it," she said. "And it fell in the hole."
Zenjiro turned. He walked toward the storm drain. His rubber shoes kicked up small puffs of dust. Hina scrambled up from the dirt. She followed close behind him. Her footsteps were light and frantic against the ground.
They reached the concrete path. Zenjiro knelt beside the iron grate. The metal bars were thick. They were painted dark green.
Rough, orange rust ate at the edges of the metal. The gaps between the heavy bars were wide enough for a hand, but the metal edges were sharp and jagged.
He peered down into the dark rectangular hole. The air rising from the drain smelled like wet dirt and rotting brown leaves.
The bottom was dry. A pile of dead leaves sat crushed in the corner. Right in the center, resting flat on the gray concrete, was the trading card. The gold foil caught a thin, weak beam of sunlight. It was a dragon. The card looked completely undamaged.
It was sitting exactly two feet down.
Hina knelt beside him. She grabbed the rusted iron bars with both hands. She tried to squeeze her right hand through the gap. Her knuckles scraped against the rough rust. She pushed harder. Her shoulder jammed against the iron.
"It's too far," she cried. "My arm is too short."
She pulled her hand back. A bright red scratch marked her pale skin. She wiped her wet eyes with the back of her wrist.
"He's going to hit me," Hina said. Panic raised the pitch of her voice. "He's going to take my allowance forever."
Zenjiro stared down at the gold card. He calculated the physical distance. Two feet. Human arms at age seven were roughly seventeen inches long. The heavy iron grate could not be lifted. Thick iron bolts secured all four corners straight into the concrete walkway. Reaching it by hand was physically impossible for either of them.
He stood up and turned his back to the drain.
"Where are you going?" Hina asked. She stood up quickly. She grabbed the back of his shirt.
"Stay here," Zenjiro said.
He pulled away. He walked back toward the sandbox. He looked at the ground as he moved. He needed length. He needed adhesion.
He scanned the outer edge of the park. A row of large cherry trees lined the dirt path. He walked to the closest tree base. Dead branches littered the thick grass around the roots.
He picked up several sticks and tested their weight in his hands. He snapped a thick, straight branch against his knee.
It was about three feet long. The wood was dry and stiff. It would not bend under slight pressure.
That solved the distance. Now I need something sticky.
He walked away from the trees. He moved toward the public water fountain. Older kids often hung out there after school. They always left things behind.
He inspected the wet concrete base of the fountain. He found a crushed red soda can. A torn blue candy wrapper. A handful of wet pebbles.
Then he saw it. Stuck to the side of the green metal trash can was a thick wad of pink chewing gum. It looked fresh. It was still soft from the afternoon heat.
Zenjiro picked up a dry leaf from the ground. He used the crisp edge of the leaf to scrape the pink gum off the metal can. It stretched out in long, sticky strings.
He rolled the pink mass between his fingers. He pressed the gum hard against the flat end of his wooden stick. He molded it. He pushed the edges down to create a thick, flat, sticky pad at the very tip.
He walked back to the storm drain.
Hina was still kneeling. She stared down at the card. She looked up when his shadow fell over her face.
Zenjiro didn't speak. He knelt on the concrete and then he positioned his body over the wide gap in the iron bars. He lowered the long stick straight down into the dark hole.
The pink gum aimed directly at the concrete floor.
"Don't push it," Hina whispered. "You'll scratch the foil. He'll notice."
Zenjiro ignored her. He focused on the target. His hand remained perfectly steady. He lowered the stick inch by inch. The dry wood cleared the iron bars. It descended into the dark shadows.
The gold dragon looked back up at him.
He stopped lowering the stick when the pink gum hung a half-inch above the glossy cardboard surface.
He paused.
He adjusted his grip and aligned the sticky tip directly over the dead center of the card. He deliberately avoided the delicate paper edges.
He pressed down. Hard.
The wood clicked sharply against the concrete floor. The pink gum flattened completely against the shiny plastic coating of the card.
Zenjiro held it there. He counted to three in his head. He let the adhesive bond with the flat surface.
"Okay," Zenjiro said.
He pulled up. Slowly.
The card lifted off the gray concrete. It hung suspended in the dark air. It swayed slightly. The gum held tight.
Zenjiro kept his right hand perfectly level. He dragged the stick upward and guided the dangling card through the rusted iron bars.
It bumped gently against the metal, but the gum did not let go. The card cleared the gap.
He brought it out into the bright sunlight.
Hina gasped loudly.
Zenjiro reached out with his free left hand. He pinched the very edges of the cardboard. He carefully peeled the pink gum off the glossy surface. The thick plastic coating protected the paper. The gum came off clean. It left no residue.
He handed the gold card to Hina.
She snatched it from his fingers. She hugged the piece of cardboard tight to her chest. She let out a deep, trembling breath. The stiff tension completely vanished from her small frame and her shoulders dropped.
"You saved me," Hina said.
She looked at the card. She looked down at the wooden stick in his hand. Her brown eyes went wide with pure relief. She smiled. A huge, toothy grin stretched across her dirty face.
Zenjiro tossed the stick into the tall grass. He wiped the dirt off his hands onto his shorts.
"Let's go back," Zenjiro said. "The tank is still attacking your base."
They walked back to the sandbox. They played for another full hour. Zenjiro destroyed her green soldiers three more times but Hina did not complain. She just laughed loudly. She kept the gold card safely tucked inside her pocket the entire time.
The sun began to set and the sky turned a deep, bruised orange. Long dark shadows stretched across the playground dirt. The tall streetlights flickered on along the paved road.
A loud bell chimed from the community speakers on the wooden telephone pole. It was five o'clock. The signal for children to go home.
Zenjiro gathered his plastic tanks. He stuffed them deep into his pockets. Hina picked up her green soldiers and dropped them into a small cloth bag.
"I have to go," Hina said.
She stood up and brushed the dry sand off her yellow dress. The dark dirt stains remained pressed into the fabric.
Zenjiro nodded. He turned his body to walk toward his street.
"Wait," Hina said.
Zenjiro stopped. He turned his head back.
Hina stepped close to him. She closed the distance between them in two quick steps. She leaned forward. Her face pressed against his cheek.
Her lips touched his skin. It was a quick, wet press. Soft and incredibly sudden.
She pulled back.
Zenjiro froze. His eyes widened slightly. He felt the phantom pressure lingering on his cheek. The skin tingled.
"What was that for?" Zenjiro asked. His voice was flat.
Hina smiled. The orange light of the sunset caught the bright look in her eyes.
"A thank you kiss," Hina said. "It's a payment. For helping me."
She turned around. She ran down the long concrete path. Her yellow dress bounced violently with every step. She didn't look back once.
Zenjiro stood completely still in the dirt. The tall streetlights hummed loudly above him. The cold evening wind blew past his face.
He slowly raised his right hand and touched his cheek. His small fingers traced the exact spot where her lips had just been. He pressed his fingertips hard against his own skin.
His chest felt incredibly tight. A strange, heavy rhythm thumped against his ribs. His heartbeat was fast.
It was an erratic pulse. A mysterious feeling of joy flooded his stomach. The sensation rushed through his arms. It made his hands shake just a fraction of an inch.
He had solved a problem. He had received compensation.
It was the very first time he had ever been paid.
He turned around and walked alone down the dark street.
---
Zenjiro reached his house. The front windows glowed yellow against the night. He opened the front door and stepped into the entryway. He toed off his rubber shoes. They hit the wooden floor with a dull thud.
He walked down the short hall. He slid the living room door open.
He stopped.
Two strangers sat on the brown sofa.
The first was a woman. She was an adult. Her posture was completely rigid. Her hair was blonde, glossy, and perfectly straight. It draped over her shoulders and reached the middle of her back. She wore a dark, fitted dress. Her legs were crossed. Her face was perfectly symmetrical. Sharp jaw. Pale skin.
A girl sat right beside her. She looked exactly his age. She wore a pristine white dress. No wrinkles. No dirt. Her hair was tied back with a silk ribbon. Her eyes were wide and blue. She stared straight at him. Her features were small, delicate, and entirely flawless.
They did not look like normal people from his neighborhood. They looked like porcelain dolls placed carefully on the worn fabric of his couch.
His father stood by the low wooden table. He held a glass of water. He looked down at Zenjiro.
"Zenjiro," his father said. His voice was flat. "Greet your new mother and sister."
Zenjiro didn't blink.
"Starting today," his father said, "they live with us."