A Paper Son by Jason Buchholz

have one for Rose, too?” he asks.
    â€œOf course I do,” says the man, studying her with a look of exaggerated thoughtfulness, “but this one is a little trickier.” He thumbs through the book again, glancing back and forth from Rose to the pages, his eyes bright. Eventually he slaps a page with his palm. “Perfect,” he murmurs. He rips another page free of the book and passes it to her. “Keep it dry, now,” he says. “Don’t let the words wash away.”
    His companions have stopped by the side of the road and are now hunting through their pockets as they wait for him. “It must be breakfast time,” the man says. He squats down in front of Rose and Henry and looks at them earnestly. “You be good now,” he says. “Make your mother proud.”
    They thank him and tell him goodbye and continue their descent. Soon they emerge from the mists and a new valley appears beneath them. Its floor and foothills are covered with a patchwork of rice paddies and terraces, just as in their own valley. In its center sits a village, three times the size of Xinhui. It takes them twenty minutes to make their way down the hill, through the paddies, and into the village’s outskirts.
    Although the houses here are also made of mud bricks, they are larger than the homes in Xinhui. Women lean from their front windows, calling out menus or the names of things for sale. Small clusters of shops and restaurants sit on the corners. Li-Yu, Rose, and Henry follow the other children into the heart of town.
    The school is made of concrete blocks, its roof corrugated tin panels that sound like drums in the rain. Children file through the door, quietly and with purpose. Henry releases Li-Yu’s hand and latches on to her leg. He buries his face into her side. “I don’t want to go, Mommy,” he says, in English, his voice muffled.
    â€œYou must,” she says, in Cantonese. She pries his arms from her legs, hugs him briefly, and then hands him the cloth bundle of paper and pencils. “No more of this. Your sister and I will be here when you are finished. Now go.”
    He turns from Li-Yu but he does not head for the door. Instead he goes to his sister. Desperation covers his face. He takes her hand. “Come with me,” he says. Li-Yu is about to step toward him, but something in Rose’s expression stops her. Rose puts her hands on her brother’s shoulders.
    â€œListen, Spider,” she says, in English. It is a nickname she gave him when he was first learning to crawl, a name she called him in a different time, a different place, and the sound of the word sends a shock through Li-Yu. When the impact of it clears she finds in its place a sudden catalog of memories. She sees her two children sitting in the room they shared in their little wooden house in Stockton, playing quietly on the faded blue rug, motes of dust dancing in the sunbeams. She smells the wood baking in the heat and hears the creak of the planks as the children pad about the rooms, exchanging one toy for another, making messes. She hears Bing’s voice echo through the house, recounting stories of things that happened at the store that day—a winning lottery ticket he sold, perhaps, or some neighborhood gossip. She hears the sounds of gleaming cars passing by, and sees the way the light inside the house changes as the cars’ reflections dart across the walls. When she returns to the rain and the doorway of the little school, she is surprised to see that the nickname has inspired a sudden change in Henry, too. He is standing a little taller, and his shoulders are back. His face is calm. “They don’t let girls go to school here,” Rose is saying, “so you have to listen very carefully to everything they teach you, and remember it all, and you can tell it all to me on our walk back home. Okay? Promise me you’ll do that.” Henry nods. He looks down and