The Rent Collector by Camron Wright

that contained a cake. He told me that it was special because it was the custom of that country to mix a small toy in with the batter and bake the toy into the cake. The toy was supposed to be a surprise, though perhaps he worried that I would bite into it and break a tooth or that I’d swallow it and choke. Either way, knowing the toy was there, I began to pull the cake apart, shoving pieces into my mouth, gulping it down, all the while looking for that silly prize.”
    “Did you find it?”
    “I found it near the bottom. It had been baked into one of the corners, but by the time I discovered it, I’d eaten almost the entire cake.”
    “By yourself?”
    “Yes, of course. But that’s not the point. The point is that I ate my cake so quickly and with my heart so intent on finding the toy that, to this day, I can’t tell you the flavor of the cake. I can’t describe the texture. I can’t say if it was delicious or bland. I can’t even remember what country it came from. Do you know why?”
    “Because . . . you . . . were focused . . . on looking for the toy.”
    Sopeap sighs again, but this time with relief rather than despair. I bite my tongue to remind my pride to stay seated.
    “Yes!” she says. “Literature is a cake with many toys baked inside—and even if you find them all, if you don’t enjoy the path that leads you to them, it will be a hollow accomplishment. There was a playwright named Heller, American, I believe, who summed it up this way. He said, ‘ They knew everything about literature except how to enjoy it. ’ ”
    I scribble this quote also.
    She continues, “Learning is an affair that takes a lifetime. Just be patient. As we delve into stories—which we will—you will soon understand. As Plautus said, ‘Patience is the best remedy for every trouble. ’ ”
    “How do you remember these quotes?” I ask.
    “Unfortunately,” she answers, “I have the curse of memory that only rice wine will erase. Macbeth had it right when he called memory ‘ the warder of the brain. ’ ”
    “Do you realize,” I point out, “that you just answered my question about a quote with another quote?”
    Sopeap smiles—and we end for the day.
     
    *****
     
    When Ki steps inside, next to where I am boiling our rice, I expect to see disappointment. He has been meeting again with a few men at the shelters, hoping to convince them to stand up against the gangs. Instead, as he pulls off his boots, I think I see him smile.
    “You convinced them?” I ask, tempering my disbelief.
    “Three of them,” he says, “Okay, two and a half.”
    “It’s a start, but three—er, rather, two and a half of you—can’t take on the gangs by yourselves.”
    “Why not?”
    We’ve had this discussion before and I already know how it ends. I plow ahead anyway. “Ki,” I plead, “it’s not worth getting hurt.”
    I wait for his rebuttal, but he instead throws me a question I don’t anticipate. “You are reading to help our family; I’m protecting us with my knife. How is it any different?”
    I don’t care for his tone, the way he seems to mock me, but I stay silent—for all of ten seconds. “Perhaps they’re not any different,” I say to his astonishment as I let my supposed surrender marinate. “But at least my reading isn’t going to get me killed, leaving my family behind and all alone.”
    If I were Ki, I’d get angry. He doesn’t.
    “There’s a time and place for defending yourself,” he says calmly, “whether it be with words—or with a knife. Keep reading; your stories will teach you that.”
    We’ve each said our piece and the ending is no surprise, though there is one thing he has said that causes me to wonder.
    “I’m curious,” I ask. “The half person you mentioned . . . are you talking about Lucky Fat?”
    The corners of his mouth turn up ever so slightly, and that tells me that when he answers, I won’t be certain if he’s serious or teasing. Either way, I know