"You can't eat our greens—get out!" I jab the stick at the hen and push my voice past five years' worth of smallness. The chicken flaps and scrambles, clucks sounding offended. He Auntie comes around the shed, wiping her hands on her apron, and laughs. "Little bean, you're fierce," she says. "You chase it better than half the boys." I drop the stick and cross my arms. "They'll eat my family's dinner if I don't guard it." He Auntie straightens and looks at the fence, then at the row of lettuces with their young, bright leaves. "You've got spirit. My grandson would hide." "Good," I say. "Teach him." She crouches and makes a face of mock seriousness. "Do you carry a spear in your pocket, or do you use that glare?" I stick my chin out. "Mostly glare." Her laugh rings out. "May the gods hear you. Tell your father I helped watch the north lot this morning. Don't let that hen in again." "Yes, Auntie," I say. My voice sounds smaller when I'm being polite, but it doesn't matter. The hen is gone and the lettuces are safe. A cluster of neighbors has gathered by the path. Word travels faster than a rooster. Old Mr. Zhang calls over, "Wanqing, you made a fine mess of her!" Qingyun waves from where he's pretending to mend a basket. Qingcong folds cloth and watches with a frown that would make grown