After what feels like hours but was probably only ten minutes, Shen shows up. His hair is windblown, his tie loosened. I feel suddenly shy when he sits down across from me, reminded of how I reacted the last time we talked—sobbing and accusing him of lying to me.

“Before I left, I let them know you’re already here,” he says, brushing his hair away from his eyes, unaware of the inner turmoil that’s brewing inside of me.

I reach down into my bag, hiding my red face under the table so he can’t see it. After a few breaths, I finally straighten and slide the bottle across the table toward him, avoiding his eyes.

“I don’t know if this is enough.” My voice decides to tremble, betraying my nervousness. “But it’s what I could find. Along with those photos I took. I sent those to you already.”

“Yeah, I forwarded those on,” he says, rolling up his sleeves to pick up the bottle, holding it with both hands. I can see the edge of the tattoo on his wrist. Definitely not something my parents would approve of, and I feel that twinge inside my chest. What would it be like if there was no Ma to tell me to make better choices, no Baba to remind me of everything at stake with my future?

Shen’s face blurs before me again. Oh no. I try to hide it, but the tears well up, out of my control.

“Ah…hell,” I hear him say, then a pack of tissues appears on the table in front of me. “I came prepared this time.”

I take off my glasses and dab at my eyes with one of the tissues, my face really burning now.

“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” I blubber, and then wonder why I even bother trying to explain anymore. He already knows I’m a mess.

“I would say you’re holding up fairly well,” he says. I slide my glasses on, and he becomes clear again, just in time to see him take my hand into his, holding it between his palms.

“Remember, you were the one who found me, even though you were terrified. Hold on to that—hold on to that feeling, that strength,” he continues softly. “You’ll save your sister. Believe it. I believe it. I believe in you.” My heart stutters a little. It’s like he sees me, notices me, like I’m someone worth saving too.

There’s a burst of laughter, a group of kids rushing by. I pull my hand away, and he clears his throat.

“I’ve seen quite a few people meet the guardians, willingly or unwillingly.” He winces at the memory. “Sometimes there’s a lot of screaming.”

“I am screaming,” I inform him. “You just can’t hear it.” He grins, even though the joke is bad.

“Well, I’ll be there with you,” Shen tells me. “Not that I’m useful at all, but—”

“I’m glad!” I blurt out. His grin deepens, and that’s when I notice he has a small dimple on his left cheek. We stare at each other, the moment stretching on, too long, before his phone beeps. He glances down, and I snap back to reality.

He’s helping you because of his family’s responsibility to the guardians, I remind myself.

“She’s ready for us,” he says, and I’m on my feet immediately, clutching the strap of my book bag like it will save me.

Shen leads me up the stairs behind the broken fountain, to the second-story walkway, before stopping in front of the doors to the Golden Age Seniors Association.

“Wait.” I pull at his sleeve to stop him. “You mean it’s here? The temple to your guardians is here? In the mall?” It’s been above us all along, another secret hidden within Chinatown.

I’ve walked past these doors before, dozens of times, on my way to my piano lessons. There is a full wall of glass, with the bottom half frosted. I can only catch a glimpse of the fluorescent lights. The name of the association is printed in red characters vertically beside the door, and then the English name in gold capital letters underneath, some of the letters having peeled off. Instead of THE GOLDEN AGE SENIORS ASSOCIATION, it is T E GOLD N AGE SEN R ASSO AT N.

“The mall has always been a gathering place,” Shen says, matter-of-fact. “Why wouldn’t a temple be here?”

A temple in my mind has always been a separate space. A building that stands out from the rest of the buildings on the block, with the traditional architecture of the sweeping curved roof, and the many carvings upon its pillars and adorning the rooftops. There should be stern-faced gold gods sitting on the altar in meditative poses, waiting for you to worship them.

I step inside behind him, tentative, unsure of what I will see. There are currently three tables set up, occupied by seniors. There is a very intense game of Chinese chess happening between two men close to the door. There are two other men in masks standing by the table, arguing with one another about the best upcoming move. The residents at the other two tables are playing mahjong. In an odd way, this does make sense. We used to go to temples with our grandparents, back when we visited years ago. Some of them had small courtyards in front, where there was a food stand with someone grilling sausage or someone else selling Popsicles from a cart. There were plastic stools everywhere, for people to sit down and eat their food or rest in the shade. There might be some seniors doing tai chi. A temple is a gathering place, I recognize now. Daily life flowing in and out of its gates. The gods are not closed behind the doors, but opened to them.

“Ruby! Ruby!” One of the ladies at the mahjong table waves. To my surprise, I recognize some of the faces from my Chorus of Aunties.

“What are you doing here?” I approach the table with surprise, feeling multiple parts of my life colliding at the moment. The manor. The mall. Shen.

“They finally fixed the elevator again,” Mrs. Sui grumbles.

“You know A’Shen?” Mrs. Wang gives him a long look and then gives Mrs. Sui a sly grin. “How fun! Ruby’s a nice girl. You best treat her well.” She shakes her cane in his direction, threatening.

Shen sputters next to me as I shake my head.

“Mrs. Wang, Shen’s helping me with something,” I correct her. “You know…what happened, um, the last time I visited you.”

“Ah.” They both glance at the door in the back, suddenly serious. The joking air dissipates, as if sucked up quickly by the ceiling fan, and the thought of whatever is hidden behind those doors.

“Take care of her, A’Shen,” Mrs. Sui says directly to Shen. “Keep her out of danger.”

“I will, 姑婆.” He nods. Shen and Mrs. Sui are related? He doesn’t refer to her as Auntie, but as something else. One of the family terms that I can never quite remember.

Mrs. Sui must have sensed my nervousness. She scoots her wheelchair closer to me and reaches out to pat my hand.

“Shu-Ling is a good girl, just like you,” she says, in her gravelly voice. “She will come up with a solution.”

Mrs. Sui calling me a good girl makes me want to cry again. My mother’s face flashes in mind, but I swallow those tears down because Shen is already leading me toward the double doors on the back wall.

There are posters taped to each of them. Door gods. One is tall and slim and dressed entirely in black, his tongue long and drooping from his face. He holds a fan in one hand and chains in another. With his tongue, he should have repulsed me like the Hanged Spirit, but he doesn’t. He strikes a strong pose, and his uniform looks to be like what they wore in ancient times. The figure opposing him is dressed entirely in white, round and short. He holds a lantern and a flag in his hands. His face is dark and bristly. They appear to be fearsome protectors. Wardens, I understand now.

Shen pushes the doors open, and there are a set of curtains within, obscuring whatever is in the space beyond. He waits until I’m fully in that small area with the curtains before shutting the doors behind us. It’s just the two of us in that tiny space, side by side. He gives me an encouraging nod and reaches out to part the curtains for me. But this reveals…a hallway. It looks like a storage space, two doors on either side. With each step, a feeling of anxiety creeps up my neck. Dread at what waits for me at the end.

We turn the corner, and the true space appears before us. There are red lanterns hanging from red rafters that cross the ceiling horizontally, decorated by elaborate wooden details of Chinese architecture. Hanging from one of the rafters is a large wooden plaque, stained a dark black, on which Chinese calligraphy is written in a flowing script, then etched in gold. If I had to guess what it said, it would be: Illuminate, protect us. Carvings of gold dragons crawl along the borders. Above the lanterns, the ceiling opens up further, so the eye is drawn upward. Slats of wood in a natural stain cover the roof, giving the space an open feel, instead of being dark and oppressive, considering there are no windows to be seen. I wonder if this is the heart that beats deep within the Pacific Dragon, if we are at the very center of the mall.

It takes me a moment to realize what I’m looking at directly in front of me, built into the wall. There is the partial roof of a traditional temple, with small gold lanterns hanging from the eaves, each of them decorated with red lettering, but too small for me to discern the characters. The altar below it is built from solid redwood, decorated with gold filigree, giving it an opulent air. The statues of the gods are set into small alcoves. Three in number. On the table below, there are plates of offerings: round yellow pears and large oranges, vases of flowers.

“You must be Ruby.” A young woman emerges from the shadows, with a nod. “You’ve gotten yourself in a bit of trouble, I hear.”