Page 54 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

My fox hangs around his neck. Slowly, I inch my way forward. I hold my breath and step as quietly as possible. Then I reach for the cord.

The same zinging jolt runs up my hand, making me feel every single branching vein. My skin thrums with pain. I clench my teeth and try again. It’s so close. It’s right there. It’s Emi’s salvation.

It doesn’t work.

Desperately, I take the knife from my pocket. Maybe if I use something else to reach for it, it’ll trick whatever magic is protecting it. I extend the blade to see if I can slip it around the leather string.

This time, I see a bright white flash. It’s like I’ve been struck by lightning. I’m knocked off my feet, onto my ass. Oda awakens and bellows in Japanese, making my ears ring. I blink and then suddenly Akira is over me. His hands close around my shirt and he straightens, lifting me up off the floor. I’m tall but he’s taller, and he lifts me like a rag doll. I choke, unable to breathe around the noose of my collar, and claw at his wrists, but he’s much too strong. My feet kick pathetically in the air. He stares at me with no recognition in his eyes. I have the bizarre and sudden fear that he’ll bite me and devour me like a wolf.

“Master!” Oda suddenly roars. “It’s the mortal boy. The one who wants to free you. Let him go!”

Abruptly, without any change in his expression, Akira’s hands open. I drop to the ground, hard, coughing violently. He arches back and howls. I stagger to my feet and out the barrack. Only once I’m in the firebreak do I stop and look back. As Akira howls, the shadow hanging over the camp thickens, the concentric ripples coming closer together. I stare in shock and confusion. Then I turn and limp back toward my barrack.

Two figures sit on the steps when I return. Mama and Mr. Nomura. They share a cigarette. It’s late, but they are both naturally nocturnal. Mama squints at me as I get close, her gaze hooking around my neck.

“Don’t worry,” I say, drained and trying to hide the hoarseness in my voice. “It’s gone.”

Immediately, she knows what I’m saying. She takes a long draw of the cigarette and then dips her chin in a harsh nod.

“Good.”

“Yep.” I move to step around them. She catches my hand. I startle, like I’m going to jump out of my skin. Whenever she touches me, it’s to grab or slap or push. But she’s calm tonight. She simply holds my wrist, looking up at me.

“Good?” she repeats, but this time it’s a question. I stare back. Part of me longs to say no, I’m not good, and demand to know why she hid Papa’s death. But I’m too exhausted for that right now.

“Yeah, Mama. It’s fine. Everything is fine.”

“Did you lose it?”

I think about Akira holding me by the collar, my pendant hanging around his neck. Hell, maybe I should’ve just given it to Boser in the first place. Instead, I’ve lost it in every way you can lose a thing.

“Must have somewhere.”

Mama nods once again. She gives my wrist a little shake. I think it’s supposed to be comforting for once. Smoke streams out of her mouth and nose. Her necklaces sparkle around her neck in the dark. She releases me, stands, pushes past me into the barrack to fetch another Lucky Strike.

“Bad chi to lose something,” Mr. Nomura says contemplatively.

“Well, it’s worse.” It’s all I can do to sound calm. “I didn’t lose it. I think I gave it to the wrong person.” That’ll prove he’s right. I’m surprised when Mr. Nomura looks up, intrigue in his eyes.

“Gave it away?” He doesn’t say it disapprovingly. “Ah, giving away something precious is different from losing it. Might be dangerous. Might be okay. You’re like a fisherman with a line in a pond, dragging up things when others would leave them undisturbed. Maybe you’ll pull up something good.”

“I don’t think so.” I hate the despair and frustration in my voice.

“No, no,” Mr. Nomura responds. “Too early to tell.”

I notice he’s wearing civilian clothes. It’s weird. I’ve gotten so used to him wearing his military getup.

“Where’s your uniform?”

“Drying,” he says. “I washed it. Tomorrow, I’ll iron it. Day after, I’ll wear it.”

“What’s the point?” I mumble under my breath.

“Eh?” he asks. I don’t say it louder, but he already knows. “I’m a fisherman, too, Ren. I drag up things when others leave them undisturbed. I wear the uniform to remind every guard and WRA official, over and over, who we are. I wear it to remind us, too, in case we begin to forget.”

“And who are we?” My tone is sharp, but Mr. Nomura remains unfazed.

“Americans,” he says simply.