Chapter 1

When I saw Nina at the airport exit, I almost didn't recognize her.

She was wearing a faded hoodie, her collarbones jutting out, and her chin was so sharp it looked like it could poke someone.

When I left three months ago, she weighed 121 pounds, which was just right.

Now she was standing at the arrival gate, smiling at me, her eye sockets hollow and sunken.

I asked her how she'd gotten so thin.

She brushed it off, saying she'd just been busy and hadn't had much time to eat lately.

I didn't believe her.

When we got home, I found three random kids sprawled out on the living room sofa, and the coffee table was littered with sunflower seed shells and orange peels.

The kitchen was filled with smoke and the smell of cooking, and my mom's voice carried through the wall.

"Nina! Where's the soy sauce? How many times have I told you to keep it by the stove?"

My mom never called her by name, just called her "Hey."

Today, she actually used her name because there was a strange man in his forties sitting in the living room, feet up, watching TV in my slippers.

*****

I stood in the entryway, frozen.

Nina Chenning hurried past me into the kitchen, her apron still untied, the straps dragging on the floor.

My dad was sitting at the head of the dining table, brewing tea. When he saw me, he gave me a chin nod. "You're back? Come sit down."

Next to him was a middle-aged woman I didn't know, her hair permed and her nails painted a vivid red, head down scrolling through her phone.

The three kids sprawled on the sofa, the oldest looked about eleven or twelve, were blasting a game on a brand-new iPad, the sound loud enough to shake the walls.

I asked my dad, "Who are these people?"

He blew on his tea, sounding as casual as if he were talking about the weather. "Relatives from back home. Your uncle's family. They're staying for a while."

I didn't have an uncle.

My dad was an only child.

The thought spun through my mind, but I kept it to myself. I just glanced at the man lounging with his legs crossed, he didn't even look my way, flipping through channels with the remote like he owned the place.

"Mark's back?" My mom, Gloriam Chenning, poked her head out of the kitchen, flour all over her hands. "Go wash up, dinner's almost ready. Nina, is the fish ready yet? Hurry up, stop dragging your feet!"

Her voice shot up an octave on that last line.

I changed my shoes and walked into the kitchen.

All four burners on the stove were going at once, the frying pan was popping with oil, the steamer was hissing, the clay pot was bubbling with soup, and the veggies in the wok were about to burn. Nina was rushing around between them, sweat beading on her forehead, her bangs plastered to her face.

She saw me standing in the doorway and flashed me a quick smile. "Go sit down, it's way too hot in here."

I didn't move.

I saw a red burn on the back of her left hand, with blisters and the skin peeling at the edges.

"How'd you get that?" I asked.

"Got splashed by oil while frying the fish. No big deal," Nina replied, not even looking up as she checked the soup and went right back to stirring the veggies.

My mom was peeling garlic nearby, muttering as she worked, "Look at her, all flustered in the kitchen. Last time she steamed ribs and forgot the salt, your uncle's whole family couldn't even eat it."

"Mom," I said, keeping my voice low, "who are these people, really?"

"I told you, your uncle. Your dad's cousin," she replied.

My dad didn't have a cousin. My grandpa was an orphan, he didn't even have any brothers, let alone a cousin.

But as my mom said that, her eyes flickered toward the window, then quickly darted away.

I made a mental note of that.

At dinner, I did a quick headcount, my dad, my mom, the "uncle," his wife, their three kids, me, and Nina. Nine people altogether.

The table couldn't fit everyone, so Nina pulled up a little stool and ate by the kitchen doorway.

Her bowl had just some rice and a few wilted greens.

She didn't even take a forkful of the steamed fish, braised ribs, or chicken soup. The three kids each hogged a dish, and the youngest gnawed on a drumstick for a bit, then tossed it back on the table, complaining it was gross.

The "uncle's" wife, let's just call her "aunt" for now, scowled and said, "This chicken soup's way too salty."

My mom immediately turned toward the kitchen and called out, "Nina, did you hear that? Next time, put less salt!"

Nina called back from the kitchen doorway, "Okay," her voice barely above a whisper.

I gripped my fork so hard my knuckles turned white.