20

Eight in the morning, dawn just breaking over the Tibetan Region. Sangji had already eaten breakfast and was following her mother to make the beds.

Five thick Tibetan rugs, laid out across five beds in three guest rooms on the second floor—all for the five guests arriving that afternoon.

Sangji's house had two floors and was one of the biggest homes in the neighborhood. They sometimes rented it out to passing travelers, and a few of their town properties had been converted into inns. Not long ago, a group of outsiders had driven in and found her parents.

Sangji knew some Mandarin—her School had a Chinese class, and the tutor her dad had hired taught it too. That day, she and her two older brothers had been crouched outside the door when they heard those people talking about 'programs,' 'lodging,' and 'rent.'

Five in the afternoon, three off-road vehicles rolled into the pasture. Sangji hid behind her bedroom window and watched the guests arrive, along with over a dozen adults hauling cameras and gear.

Three men and two women stepped out, each with a cameraman trailing them. Sangji noticed they were all pale—several shades lighter than the locals. Small faces, long limbs, big striking features.

Sangji's features were big too, but only her eyes were the pretty kind. Her mom said they were the brightest black gems on the plateau. The rest of her face was thick lips and a nose so flat you couldn't see the bridge. Her mom said all kids were like that—wait till Sangji grew into a young woman, the lips would thin out and the nose bridge would come.

Sangji widened her black-gem eyes and watched every person step out of the vehicles. The men and women the cameras were aimed at all had backpacks, and the moment they got out they were sucking from oxygen bottles. Sangji knew what that was—altitude sickness. Outsiders who came here almost always got it.

Until the last person got out. Sangji noticed he wasn't carrying a backpack, no oxygen bottle either. Just a thin down jacket on a thin frame, and a pitch-black knit cap on his head.

The cap's brim couldn't hold down his flyaway hair, and even from far away Sangji could see his downy brows and lashes.

He was quieter than the others. When he stepped out, he didn't look around taking in the yard the way the earlier guests had—he just turned to the back of the car and started hauling luggage.

The man moved wordlessly through every camera's background, leaving a flicker of shadow in the corners the lenses caught, and quietly opened the trunk and pulled out the bags one by one.

One, two, three, four, five.

Just when Sangji thought the luggage would never end, the people at the front of the car finally snapped out of it and came scrambling over to help.

So it wasn't just his.

Sangji was still thinking this when the man, having finished with the luggage, suddenly looked up in her direction. Maybe he sensed her there—his gaze cut straight through the air between the two floors and landed right on her. Sharp as a wild animal out on the empty range.

Six-year-old Sangji ducked behind the curtain, too spooked to peek out again.

The man studied the window for a moment, thoughtful, then looked away.

When Sangji finally got brave enough to look again, they'd all gone inside. Only the film crew was left in the yard, setting up their gear.

Soon the noisy greetings drifted up from downstairs—the guests exchanging polite hellos with her parents. Then footsteps on the stairs, everyone hunting for their rooms.

The second floor was split into a filming zone and a no-filming zone. Sangji's family's rooms were in the no-filming zone, so the photographers and the Program Team's installed cameras all steered clear.

She cracked the door open a sliver and peeked through at the chaos of feet below. The guests were figuring out the room assignments. That man stood quietly at the far left, and someone occasionally turned to him: 'What do you think, Wen Fu?'

He'd give the smallest nod. 'I'm fine with anything.'

It was the first time Sangji had heard his voice. Clear, clean, like spring water running off the mountain.

The second Sangji drifted off, the man called Wen Fu tilted his head slightly, looked her way, and caught little Sangji behind the crack in the door.

Two pairs of eyes—one big, one small—met across the crowd. Sangji felt like she was looking at another pair of black gems out on the grassland. Wen Fu's eyes under those long dark lashes showed nothing. After that single beat of contact, he looked away.

They finally figured it out: the oldest actor got the single room, the remaining two men and two women paired up by gender. Once rooms were sorted, they went downstairs. Sangji caught the smell of butter and milk tea drifting up—she knew more food at home was about to go to waste. Newcomers almost never liked the local tea, but her parents would cheerfully pour everyone a full cup, then watch helplessly through all the cheerful small talk as each cup got one sip, went cold, and ended up dumped.

Every cup of wasted tea was a traveler's curiosity, filtered out.

Sangji gripped the railing at the landing and watched the people downstairs through the crisscross of wooden posts.

The five guests sat in a row on the long Tibetan couch. The man in the middle looked familiar—Sangji often saw him in the dramas her dad had on. Her dad's favorite actor. Hawk nose, deep-set eyes, older but still handsome.

The older middle-aged actor, playing the role of big brother, took it on himself to warm things up, chatting warmly with her parents as hosts. The others sat in order of age down both sides. Wen Fu stayed quiet at the far end, not joining in, but listening carefully to whoever was next to him.

Soon her mom brought out zanba—the most popular afternoon snack on the grassland.

One of the women in the group was a bit older. Sangji heard the younger ones call her Jiejie, and the middle-aged man call her Cola.

Cola clearly wasn't new to local customs. When the zanba came out, she picked up her bowl with practiced ease, kneaded the dough with her hands, and patiently whispered instructions to the younger ones beside her.

Wen Fu was at the far end, two people away from Cola. The cameras were all on her, so he—who didn't know how to eat zanba—ended up pushed off-frame and leaned toward Cola, listening carefully, learning by the book.

Making zanba was actually simple: a scoop of butter, a splash of milk tea, a handful of barley flour, then knead it all together by hand into a ball. Didn't have to look pretty—just shape it and eat.

Outsiders thought it looked a little messy, but it was the first highlight of the shoot. The guests didn't fuss—once they washed their hands, they got to work.

Knowing and doing were two different things. Zamba looked easy, but the first time an actor put their hands in the bowl, there was always that hard-to-name feeling. The two younger artists couldn't quite keep their faces straight for a moment. Nobody noticed that in the silent corner, Wen Fu had already finished his first bowl and was reaching for a second handful of barley flour, while secretly dumping three big spoonfuls of sugar into both his tea and his zanba.

Zamba mixed with butter and milk tea—if you couldn't handle the tea, you couldn't handle the zanba either. Cola and the older actor had been around enough to take it in stride and finished their afternoon snack between laughs. The younger female artist politely pushed through her portion. The younger male artist took two symbolic bites and called it done.

Wen Fu, while quietly listening to the grown-ups talk, silently polished off two cups of milk tea and three servings of zanba.

When he caught Sangji's mom watching him with a smile, he suddenly remembered the manners Fei Bolin had drilled into him.

You're a guest in someone's house—you should at least try to be polite about it.

So he stopped his hand from reaching for the barley bowl a fourth time.

When he found out dinner was in two hours and dinner was whole roasted lamb, a flicker of surprise and regret crossed Wen Fu's otherwise flat face.

Sangji, at the top of the stairs, caught every shift in his expression.

She covered her mouth and laughed quietly—this gege was such a dummy, thinking zanba was dinner.

Predictably, the biggest eater of the bunch—Wen Fu—barely touched his chopsticks at the feast where everyone else was digging in. Those three bowls of zanba from the afternoon left him staring at a table of glistening roast lamb with all the will and none of the room.

Eyes hungry, stomach full.

Having missed dinner against his will, Wen Fu toughed it out on a belly full of zanba until eleven at night—and finally got hungry for real.

The male artist sharing his room had just fallen asleep, lights off. Wen Fu tossed around for a bit, then threw back the covers, got out of bed, opened the suitcase Fei Bolin had packed for him, and pulled out a small bag of assorted snacks.

The rustling caught his roommate's attention. Wen Fu knew the guy hadn't eaten much at dinner either. He crouched in front of the suitcase and looked over at the other bed—the guy was lying on his side on the pillow, eyes wide open, watching him.

He held up the snack bag. 'Want some?'

The Program Team had stopped filming by now—only the infrared cameras in each room were still rolling.

The actor hesitated a few seconds, glanced at the camera, then shook his head. 'I'm full. Not hungry.'

The guy in front of him was Ji Jie, a new actor who'd barely debuted. Wen Fu remembered Stella mentioning a few days before they left that Ji Jie was the first artist Cola had signed at her new company. This variety show was him tagging along with his boss to get his face out there—old hand showing the new kid the ropes.

Cola was extremely strict with her artists—skills, image, personal life, all of it. After seeing so many careers implode over the past couple years, she didn't allow even the slightest slip. She and Stella worked the same way and watched the same things, which was why the two women had clicked in the first place.

Ji Jie was two years younger than Wen Fu, a full meter eighty tall, and had only had a few bites of lamb at dinner. There was no way he was actually full—his boss was probably right in the next room, and he didn't have the nerve to snack in front of her. That's why he'd turned Wen Fu down.

Wen Fu didn't ask again. He changed into fresh pants, pulled his down jacket on over his pajamas, grabbed the snacks, and headed out.

Staying in the room—even if he didn't wake Ji Jie—would still be a kind of temptation. Dieting was hard enough already; having someone smack-smacking on snacks next to you was torture for anyone.

Wen Fu went down to the first floor, crossed the hall, and walked straight outside to a camera blind spot by the kitchen wall—where he unexpectedly ran into Cola.

With filming zones everywhere in the house and yard, plenty of things were awkward to do in plain sight. The Program Team treated the hours after daily shooting as the artists' private time—no cameramen following.

Wen Fu had come out here for a late-night snack. Cola was out here for a cigarette.

Their eyes met for a beat. Cola gave a small smile, nodded at Wen Fu, then looked away. The woman in her forties leaned against the wall, exhaling smoke at her leisure. Wen Fu paused, thought it over for a second, then sat down on the steps not far from her and quietly ate his dried fruit. Neither bothered the other.

As her cigarette was about to burn out, Cola glanced down and saw Wen Fu finish the dried fruit, then pull a bar of chocolate from inside his jacket. He bit off half in one go and chewed.

Cola turned away and took a hard drag.

A moment later, another glance—Wen Fu was popping the remaining half into his mouth, chewing while staring off into the yard.

Cola took another drag.

Just when she thought he was done and about to head back, he pulled out a second bar of chocolate, tore it open, and bit off half in one go again.

Chew chew chew.

Cola: '...'

Wen Fu crumpled up the wrapper, stuffed it in his pocket, and in the next breath finished what was in his mouth and popped the last half in too.

Chew chew chew.

'...'

Surely he was done now.

Cola flicked her ash, still debating whether to wait for Wen Fu to leave before lighting a second cigarette—when she saw him pull out a pack of small biscuits.

He grabbed a handful and dumped them in his mouth.

Chew chew chew.

Cola: '...'

Is this ever going to end?

Just as she was about to ask Wen Fu to share a couple bites, the little door beside her creaked open from inside and a small head poked out.

Wen Fu and Cola both looked over at the same time.

Sangji had noticed the two of them outside a while ago from the kitchen. Her parents had roasted two whole lambs for dinner and set aside her and her brother's share in the kitchen. Her brother had eaten early and gone to bed; she'd been playing until now and just remembered she was hungry—and there was still roast lamb left.

Three people staring at each other. Cola was the first to react.

Smoking was one thing—setting a bad example for a kid was another.

Cola dropped the cigarette butt on the ground, casually ground it under her foot, bent down, and smiled at Sangji. 'Hey there.'

She made sure to keep her distance while talking so the smoke wouldn't reach Sangji.

Sangji held out a bowl of lamb from behind her back, offering to share.

Cola was heading straight into a movie shoot after the variety show wrapped. Late-night snacks were off the table—she couldn't eat them. Even at the afternoon meal she'd only taken two symbolic bites before asking the cameraman to move away. She waved her hand, thanked Sangji with a smile, then—while Sangji wasn't looking—picked up the cigarette butt and went back inside.

Wen Fu had no such reservations. When Sangji held out the roast lamb, he took a piece, ate it with his head down, and was just about to say 'thanks' when he looked up and found Sangji sitting on the steps right next to him.

Two figures—one big, one small—looked at each other under the bright moon.

Sangji held up the bowl, asking if Wen Fu wanted more.

Wen Fu took another piece and ate in silence.

While he ate, Sangji watched him with bright, sparkling eyes.

Whether it was Cola just now or Wen Fu right in front of her, this was the first time Sangji had been this close to people like them. They were more beautiful than anyone she'd ever seen in her life—more beautiful than people on TV.

Wen Fu ate the lamb without a word, glanced at Sangji by chance, and realized she was leaning in, staring at him.

Another glance. Still staring.

Another. Still staring.

Wen Fu had no idea why. For no reason he could name, he felt—for the first time, weirdly—a little self-conscious.

But he wasn't the type to show it even when he was. Wen Fu glanced at Sangji and said, 'Thanks.'

The thanks was real. He'd been thinking about the roast lamb all night. He'd been too full that afternoon to really taste it.

Sangji beamed at him, showing off her two newly grown-in teeth.

Wen Fu thought for a moment, then fished out a bag of vitamin gummies from his jacket. Figured a kid would like those.

Sure enough, Sangji took them with wide curious eyes. Wen Fu tore the bag open for her, and the two of them shared the snacks, bite for bite.

The orange-flavored gummies left their mouths sweet. Wen Fu sucked at the candy on his tongue and asked Sangji, 'What's your name?'

Her real name was Sangji. She told Wen Fu in not-quite-standard Mandarin: 'You can call me Sangji.'

'I'm Wen Fu.' The man in front of her thought for a moment, then seriously exchanged names with her. 'You can call me Xiaofu.'