"Give me the vegetables!" Xiaohua shoved a hand into the woven basket and didn't bother to ask. "Those are for my mother," Miao snapped, teeth low and sharp. She planted her feet on the narrow footpath and pulled. "Your mother? Your whole family lives under a leech tarp," Xiaohua said, smiling with the cruelty of inheritance. "Hand it over." "You're still stealing from us?" Miao spit the words. She was small. Eleven by the way her sleeves hung. Old enough to know where it hurt. Young enough for people to think she would break. Xiaohua laughed and pushed harder. Miao's arm burned. The carrots slid, hit rocks, bounced free. "Stop!" someone shouted from higher on the hill. "Don't get in it," Xiaohua said, not looking back. Her friends snickered from the path. "This is what poor people do—beg." Miao grabbed for a slithering carrot. Xiaohua's wrist caught hers, fingers like a trap. "You think I'm afraid of you?" Miao's voice dropped. She reached for the only defense she had: words and quick hands. She swung. Not a big swing. A slap that landed on Xiaohua's cheek with a wet, stinging sound. Silence hit then—the cheap kind, the kind that spread through a crowd when a rule gets broken. Xiaohua blinked, fingers frozen. A red print bloomed on her cheek. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. "You hit me?" Her voice was high and jagged. Miao didn't step back. "Don