Page 65 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

“Well, apparently his shadow builds up over time. Gets more and more restless as he does. And then, well, it combusts.”

“Combusts?” I croak. I hate how weak I sound.

“Yes.” She’s collected as she talks, though there’s awareness to her gaze, like she’s trying to measure me, make sure I’m okay with the distraction. ’Course it’s a fake distraction. Can’t really be free of my grief, but I can listen and it’s helpful in its own way. “Which isn’t great.”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” I say awkwardly. There’s a moment of silence. Violet gently touches my hand. I yank it away. “You don’t have to,” I mutter. The last thing I want is some kind of pity sympathy. I’m not about to lap up her attention just because I’m suffering.

“Ren,” Violet begins. “I—”

The door swings open. Mrs. Aratani’s shadow falls over us. Her face is slightly less dour than the last time she hurried Violet away from me, but it tightens as she surveys how close we’re sitting together.

“We need another crate, Violet,” she says. “Please, go fetch one from the Kimuras. They said they’d be willing to help in any way. And, Ren, I think Nurse Rose is having trouble with the hot plate. Maybe you can come help?”

I know she’s sending Violet away on purpose, but what else is new? I go inside and fiddle with the hot plate, both Nurse Rose and Mrs. Wozumi hovering over me, trying to help. I listen to their suggestions and their fretting. I wonder what Violet was about to say to me on the steps. Mama sits on Emi’s bed, holding her pillow. Across the way, Mr. Nomura picks up Emi’s books one by one. Carefully, almost reverently, he puts them in the crate. Mama snaps, “Not that one.”

It’s Les Misérables. Mr. Nomura nods, sets it aside, and keeps going. Mrs. Aratani suggests we put the other books in the library for people to read and then take them home with us when we leave. Cosette might want them someday. It’s a good idea. I nod in agreement, as does Mama.

Inside, though, I hate it. Books belong to different owners, but the words inside don’t. They belong to whoever reads them. I know it’s true. Emi herself would agree. Until the books are opened again, she was the last one to read them. If I close my eyes, I can see hers, flying over the sentences like a falcon in dive.

She didn’t have much in the world, but she borrowed those words. Made a home in them. A shelter. And I’m not ready for it to be given back.

Before Emi died, I was so tired, all I wanted was rest. Now I can’t sleep. Not at all. If Cosette isn’t needing me to hold her and pace so she can fall asleep or waking up for a bottle, I’m apprehensive that she soon will be. My body is always alert. Sleep doesn’t get me until I’m past exhausted, and then I hear Mr. Nomura telling me Emi has died and I bolt up on my cot to find Violet next to me—only I haven’t woken at all, I just think I have. Then I wake up for real and stare into the dark, my heart racing and sweat drenching my sheets.

It’s daytime now. I’ve been up all night. I check on Cosette. She’s down and, if she follows her routine, will be for another hour.

While I can’t sleep, Mama does nothing but sleep. I’m worried about her, but Mr. Nomura brings her food and sits by her. He folds origami from lined paper. The medical book disappeared after Emi’s death. Mrs. Wozumi says she saw Mr. Nomura burn it in a trash can using Mama’s lighter.

I get up. Head out. I pass several gardens. Walking paths and bridges weave around waterways and are surrounded by lawns and flowers. A bit farther on, I pass several coops and brooders sitting just outside the barbed wire. Chicken Ranch, it’s called. It’s home to those white leghorn chicks I’ve spent the past months unloading. Workers are allowed outside Manzanar to feed the chicks and plant coop lawns. Because apparently while we don’t get lawns, the chicks do. Supposedly hogs are going to get added, too. Everyone is busy. Life streams around me, fluid, responsive, agile, splashing up like cold water on my face and leaving me shaking with rage.

Soon, I find myself standing across from the hole in the fence, the one with the wire pulled aside to gain access to the streams. People have gotten a lot bolder, and many have started to go under during broad daylight. For the most part, the guards have gotten lax—but, at the same time, you never know what hand you’ll get dealt. Only recently, Mr. Nomura and Mrs. Wozumi murmured about an old issei man who was walking his dog along the fence over in the Topaz camp in Utah and got shot and killed for no reason at all.

But I’m so tired that caution is a mere passing thought. Doesn’t have any power over me. I look at the closest watchtower stretching to the sky. The guard isn’t looking my way, so I go. Fast. The grayish dirt blurs past my vision as I dive down, slip under the fence, and scramble to my feet on the other side. As quickly as I can, I press into the brush and scrabbly trees, toward the stream.

I could sit on the rock I’ve always shared with Violet, but I don’t. Instead, I settle next to the creek on the ground. I turn my aching head to the sky. It’s a pure, bright blue, unlike the drab gray it was when we arrived. Kinda like the sky back home. Makes me think about how Los Angeles is only about four hours from here, even though it feels like it’s worlds away. Makes me think about the quirks of home—the rubbery sound dried fronds make on the sidewalk after they’ve fallen from the palm trees, the buzzing of the neon-light signs on the diners, burlesque theaters, and cinemas up and down Main Street, the curving art deco molding wrapping around most of the windows. It’s all vivid yet hazy in my mind at once.

I smell something.

Old fish, gross water. And rose petals. I look up the creek. Akira wades around the bend. He’s impressive, his blue kimono swirling around him, tugged along by the water. His hair tumbles down and floats on the surface. His kimono and hair spread out from him as though they’re branches, and he’s their tree. He wears my fox around his neck.

“So, your shadow could break out into fire, huh?” I say without bothering to greet him. “Violet read something like that in a book.”

“What else is it supposed to do?” His face gathers into a scowl.

“I don’t know…project a shape onto the dirt like everyone else’s?” My voice is heavy. I find myself staring at my fox hanging around Akira’s neck. If only I’d known to care for it. If only I’d given it to Boser instead of Akira. Both thoughts torture me because if I’d done either, maybe I could’ve saved Emi.

“Oh, stop staring,” Akira snaps. “It’s insulting that this trinket, practically drained of magic as it is, is my only offering. If I could give it back, I would.” Dramatically, he wades ashore. I think he’ll stand over me so he can be commanding and godlike and all that. I’m surprised when he collapses to the ground. Rolling over onto his back, he stares up at the sky. One hand reaches up, the nails growing—only instead of lengthening into claws, they delicately stretch like creeping vines. “To be up there,” he whispers. “Tell me, sad mortal boy, will I ever be free again?”

“Why would I give a damn?” I ask, tearing viciously at the weeds poking through the dirt. “Go screw yourself. You’re a god. You could’ve saved her. You could’ve—” I’m choking on grief. Tears flood my eyes in a violent rush. I haven’t cried since Emi died. I won’t let them fall. Not here. Not with him. Akira stares at me, blinking.

“What do you speak of, mortal?”

“My sister. I gave you my relic and you took it. I didn’t get anything back. She died. She’s gone. She died.” I’m ranting, repeating myself, sounding crazy.

“Oh, so that’s why you look so grotesque,” Akira says, his head tilting to the side as he watches me. “Those circles under your eyes are not becoming of one who possesses such a beautiful face.” Almost flippantly, he adds, “And, of course, the divine favor worked. It saved the baby.”

I feel like I’ve grabbed a live telephone wire. I stare at him, my chest heaving. “The divine favor saved Cosette?”

“It is so. Both were meant to die. Your relic, weak as it was, saved one.”