Mr. Chen seems to lean into me when he starts to speak but it is I who is drawing closer, trying to catch every word from his aged mouth that opens like raw dough— slow and sticky with spittle.

“I remember running from father, only six year old at the time, as fast as can. The rice grow taller than me, making me invisible in the fields. Reaching such haven was trouble. He had a bamboo cane in hand ready to bust my lip if I run, and bust my lip if I stay. The tops of my feet are blisters from the black, sun soaked soil, but I keep running.

My own sense of voice awakens, “Did you get away?”

He looks up from the board with an expression that aches, but Mr. Chen remains chiseled underneath his wrinkled eyes.

“Father managed to grab my shirt and pull me into his stomach with strangling hands on my neck. That was one of many beating I endure as child.”

He bends his arm slow like angel hair pasta in boiling water. Chunky canyons of skin slice like the movement of his sliding bishop. My heart drops with my jaw.