We were both catching frogs to eat in the field. Chicken or pig was birthday only. I saw him squatting in a rice paddy roasting baby frogs over a small gas burner and I approached, cautiously, because I had never seen someone my age before. With how grown the world was I didn’t think there was many of us. He waved me over.

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WANT ONE????

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SHHHHHH.
We aren’t supposed to be here.
This field is Fung’s. 
My dad says he’s the meanest landlord in China.

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Oh, I didn’t know.
Isn’t this thing cool?
I traded with the mechanic for five cigarettes.
Want one?

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I hesitated before declining. He shrugged his bony shoulders and lit a cigarette on the sputtering fire. The cigarettes were stolen from his dad who had them locked away under the bed. I could tell stealing was something he did very often. He didn’t have as many teeth as I did and his left arm bent funny and his speech slurred in a way that made it easy to mince words. He asked if I had ever been caught stealing and I told him no, because I never needed to.

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He didn’t say much after that. In consolation I gave him a lighter rusting away in the river Yong. His fingers stiffened awkwardly as he wrapped the lighter in his palm, like a crane dipping its head beneath the water. Streaks of gray dirt traced slits under his fingernails.

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He smiled a little. I do too. His teeth are rust like the river Yong.