The Cost of Belonging

The neon sign above Gao’s market hummed with a sickly, oscillating buzz, casting a jaundiced light over the rows of wilting bok choy. Lin Mei stood at the counter, her fingers tight around the cool, heavy leather of her father’s ledger. She didn't need the expensive cuts of meat today; she needed rice, a carton of eggs, and the silence of a belly that wasn't protesting her presence in the district.

Mr. Gao didn't look up from his abacus. He knew who she was—the daughter of the man who had audited the neighborhood’s secrets into a corner. When she slid a vintage silver watch—a piece her father had prized—across the scarred wood, Gao didn't even glance at the craftsmanship.

“The ledger, Lin Mei,” Gao said, his voice a dry rasp that barely carried over the street noise. He pushed the watch back

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