The old man is dying. Ren can see it in the shallow breaths, the sunken face, and the skin stretched thinly over his cheekbones. Yet he wants the shutters open. Irritably, he beckons the boy over, and Ren, his throat tight as though he’s swallowed a stone, throws open the second-story window.

Outside is a brilliant sea of green: the waving tops of jungle trees and a blue sky like a fever dream. The tropical glare makes Ren flinch. He moves to shield his master with his shadow, but the old man stops him with a gesture. Sunlight emphasizes the tremor of his hand with its ugly stump of a missing finger. Ren remembers how just a few months ago that hand could still calm babies and suture wounds.

The old man opens his watery blue eyes, those colorless foreign eyes that had frightened Ren so much in the beginning, and whispers something. The boy bends his cropped head closer.

“Remember.”

“The boy nods.

“Say it.” The hoarse rasp is fading.

“When you are dead, I will find your missing finger,” Ren replies in a clear, small voice.

“And?”

He hesitates. “And bury it in your grave.”

“Good.” The old man draws a rattling breath. “You must get it back before the forty-nine days of my soul are over.”

The boy has done many such tasks before, quickly and competently. He’ll manage, even as his narrow shoulders convulse.

“Don’t cry, Ren.”

At times like this the boy looks far younger than his years. The old man is sorry—he wishes he could do it himself, but he’s exhausted. Instead, he turns his face to the wall.