Not Dai. I stare at the bagged body. What the gangster just dragged through the streets—it’s more skeleton than girl. Greasy hair. Wasted face. A single scarlet dot between her eyes.
“Sing,” Mei Yee gasps beside me. “The second shot. It must have been Sing.…”
I drop the plastic back over the dead girl’s face. Look up at my sister. “What happened? The last time you saw Dai. Where was he?”
“We—we were in Sing’s room. The ambassador accused Dai of keeping secrets, and Longwai shot him. He fell on the floor and there was blood everywhere. Longwai stepped over him and aimed the gun at his head. The ambassador dragged me away, and I heard another shot and I thought…” Mei Yee folds a hand over her mouth. Stares at the trash bag.
“The first shot. Where was Dai hit?”
“I-I don’t know,” she manages. “Somewhere near his chest. It all happened so fast.…”
I stare at the crinkled black, too. But I’m not thinking about what’s inside it. I’m thinking about my next move. Weeks ago I would’ve run—taken my sister out of the Walled City and never looked back. Part of me—the survivor who’s kept me alive all these years—still wants that. Follow rule number one. Run, run, run. I’ve fought so hard, risked so much to get Mei Yee back. And now she’s here. My work, the reason I came to this place, is finished.
But I remember the promise I made to Dai, even though he never asked me to make it. I promised to help him get his book. His freedom. As long as he’s alive, that promise still stands.
Dai saved my life. My sister’s. Now it’s time for us to save him.
“Dai’s probably still alive. He’s got to be or else that gangster would’ve dragged two bags out.” I look back at Mei Yee. She’s standing still, swallowed whole in Hiro’s jacket. Her cheeks are wet. “And if he is, we have to get him out.”
I expect her to argue; instead she looks up from the bag to me. Her voice is so strong, so sure. There’s a fire in her words—in her—that was never there before. “I know. How?”
How. That’s the question. My mind is working. Spinning faster than a weaving loom. Taking all the individual threads and piecing them together. Braiding them into a terrible, delicate tapestry.
The ledger.
One more day until New Year’s.
Mei Yee’s scarlet dress.
Midnight.
Eight boys and their knives.
Dai’s revolver.
So many pieces. Parts that could snag. Go wrong. The whole thing could unravel at any point. I try not to think of this.
Instead, I look straight at Mei Yee and tell her, “I have a plan.”