Inked

burned behind them, revealing glimpses of movement; skirts and bare arms, and glass glinting, fleeting as ghosts. I heard pots banging, babies wailing; shouts, followed by the low throaty grunts of sex; and as I pressed my palm against my aching head I saw red eyes in the shadows, steady as stone and fire.
    I could make no sense of the maze that Ernie led me down, and finally blocked out everything but the need to stay on my feet and breathe. It was so hard to breathe the air, which was unrelenting in its heat. Sweat poured down my body. My jeans and turtleneck felt like a burning coffin against my skin.
    A breeze finally cut against me. Faint, but the movement of air felt like a splash of cold water against my face. I tilted my head, inhaling, and moments later found myself discharged from the narrow alley. Expelled in a rush, like something hard and dirty that had passed for days through some sweaty bowel. I stood on a wide avenue where the buildings, at first glance, resembled some mask of European charm; but then Chinese men, nearly naked and glistening with sweat, ran past me with their heads down, hauling empty rickshaws behind them.
    Thunder rolled in the distance; man-made or a storm, I could not tell. I glanced at Ernie, who still held my hand. He was staring at my clothes.
    “Hey,” I whispered, afraid of my own voice. Afraid of him, this place, everything around me. I was not supposed to be here. No one, I thought, should have that power.
    His head jerked up, but there was nothing startled or young in his gaze. His eyes were old, far too old.
    “Your head,” Ernie said. “He hit you.”
    “He,” I echoed. My head ached. I was still touching it lightly. “No. I was…sick.”
    He did not believe me. Just a glint in his eye, a thinning of his mouth, but that little shift in his expression made me feel small and cut. Like I had violated some trust between us that I had never known existed. That never had.
    “But you ran from him,” Ernie said, his English heavily accented. German in origin, I thought. Or Polish.
    I hesitated, needing to sit down—feeling exposed on the sidewalk, far too vulnerable. “Run?”
    Ernie frowned impatiently. “You only dress like a man during the day. Did you steal his clothes because you were in a hurry?”
    He thought I was Jean. My grandmother. I took a moment, unsure how to respond. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
    Disappointment, even hurt, flashed across his face, but he nodded stiffly and gestured down the street, which seemed filled with sluggish activity; a quietness to each slow movement that made the night feel deep and old. “I can’t walk you home. I have to go. Mutter does not know I slipped out.” He released my hand, and teetered backward, still studying me. “You seem different.”
    No shit . “How did you know where to find me?”
    Finally, Ernie looked uncomfortable. “You always see the baojia unit leader on Thursdays. But he drinks,” blurted out the boy, and then stared hard at his shoes, which had holes where his big toes should be. “He’s mean when he drinks. We all know that.”
    I thought of the hotel clerk, smiling as she talked about old man Ernie. And here, the boy, still a champion of women. I felt a howl swell in my throat, but swallowing it down only made my eyes burn with tears.
    Here’s your chance, I thought. Ask him about the Black Cat. Don’t waste time.
    But when I opened my mouth, all I said was, “Go on home, Ernie. Thanks for helping me.”
    Nothing else to say. Nothing. He was just a kid, and I was the grown-up here. Whatever was happening now was bad news, and would get him killed in sixty years. If I could take care of it without getting him involved more than he already was, if I could do this without upsetting time more than it already would be—then I had to try. I had to keep him, and his friends, safe.
    Which meant talking to—and finding—someone else.
    Ernie nodded, but still lingered—like there was more he wanted to say. He rubbed his wrist as though it hurt.
    “What is it?” I asked, as gently as I could. “Ernie, you can tell me.”
    He ducked his head, fingers going still around his wrist. I glimpsed a mark there, half-hidden beneath his thumb. Reached for him without thinking. He flinched, taking a step back—and shot me a haunted look that cut me to the core. I had seen those eyes before, on other kids, and it was a bad look. Kids were not supposed to grow up that fast.
    No chance to