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The kid’s green eyes dilate until the pale iris looks like a thin ring of glass around the pupil.

“…Oh no,” he whispers.

“What?”

“Oh no, no, no.” He steps closer, leaning in until his nose is four inches from mine, inspecting my face. “Your chin is doing the wobbly thing.”

“My chin is not doing anything.”

“It is! It’s doing the wiggle! You’re gonna cry!”

“I don’t cry,” I mutter, taking half a step back. “Go away.”

“Don’t cry on the sidewalk! People walk here!”

He begins waving his small hands in circular motions, as if he can physically shoo the moisture out of the air before it touches my cheeks. “Stop it! Un-wiggle your chin right now! Look—look what I have!”

He shoves a sticky fist deep into the pocket of his shorts. He rummages, pulling out a crumpled cellophane wrapper covered in white powder and lint.

He thrusts it directly against my chest. “There! Take it! No crying!”

My fingers close around the bag, and my stomach lets out a ferocious growl that rattles through my ribcage.

The kid’s eyes widen. “Whoa. Your tummy is angry.”

“I haven’t eaten,” I admit, my voice dropping into my collar.

“Well, eat fast before the monster in there eats your liver!” he orders bossily, nodding at the bag. “It’s raspberry. It makes your tongue red so you can pretend you’re a dragon.”

I peel open the plastic with stiff fingers. I pop one of the small red hard candies into my mouth.

“Arigato,” I say quietly.

“What did you say?”

“Thank you,” I correct myself. Sometimes I forget I am no longer in Japan.

“You’re welcome!”

Before I can brace myself, the kid goes up on his tiptoes. He reaches up with one palm and pats the top of my head twice.

“Don’t pat my head.”

“I had to! Mom says patting fixes the bad thoughts.”

He pauses, tilting his head so far to the side his pale hair falls completely across his forehead. He leans in closer. Then, without asking, he reaches up with both hands, grabs my cheeks, and yanks my face down until our noses nearly touch.

Nobody touches my face unless they are about to slap it. Every muscle in my legs screams to shove him and to break his wrists before he can curl his fingers into claws.

But his palms are soft. I like them.

“Whoaaaa,” he breathes.

“Let go,” I whisper.

“Your eyes are like ink,” he says, staring directly into my pupils without a single trace of fear. “Look at them! They’re so shiny and black! Are you a magical bird?”

I blink. “A bird?”