Hesitantly, I lift my hands. Our records say that the language we use with our hands is based on a preexisting one used by our migratory ancestors, specifically those who lost hearing through diseases or other known causes. I have no idea if that means others in the lowlands still use this method of communication or if only those without hearing do. Regardless, I bow and then sign a greeting: Hello, most exalted line keeper. My name is Fei, and this is Li Wei. We have traveled a great distance from the village on the top of the mountain to speak with you about grave matters.

The man gapes, and his eyes bug out. It’s clear that he doesn’t understand what I’ve said . . . but it seems to me he recognizes that I was speaking with my hands, as though perhaps he’s encountered others who do as well.

What do we do? Li Wei asks me when no immediate answer comes.

I make a motion of painting or writing with my hand and then look at the man expectantly. The line keeper occasionally sends notes to communicate with us, so surely he must keep supplies here. I think my meaning is clear, but it takes a few more repeated attempts before he understands. When he does, he shakes his head, which surprises me. How was he communicating with our lead supplier if he has no writing tools on hand?

Stumped, we resort to much more basic attempts. Li Wei touches my shoulder and his own chest, then points up to the top of the mountain, tracing along the zip line. He then signals that we have descended the mountain, coming to this spot. I watch the line keeper closely as Li Wei maneuvers, and I feel myself growing increasingly puzzled. This isn’t at all the kind of man I expected. At the very least, I imagined someone a little more intelligent. Maybe we can’t communicate in the same language, but Li Wei’s gesturing is pretty basic. The man finally seems to grasp where we’ve come from, and that realization almost frightens him. He shifts from foot to foot, looking troubled and conflicted.

At last, he gestures that we should sit down. He points at himself, then at the small dirt road winding away from the shed, and indicates he will return. When Li Wei takes a couple of steps forward to suggest we accompany him, the man frantically shakes his head and reiterates that we should sit and wait.

Li Wei and I exchange looks. What else can we do? I ask. Maybe he’s going to get someone who knows our language. Or at least some paper and ink.

Our deliberation slams to a halt when the man hurriedly goes inside the shed and returns with a crate. He sets it on the ground and opens it, beckoning us over. We come closer, and I can’t help but gasp. The crate is filled with food. I’ve never seen so much at once. Small buns, radishes, onions, rice, dried fruit. It is staggering, and I know my awe is reflected in Li Wei’s face. The man gestures grandly that it is for us, his motions sweeping and generous. He urges us to sit down and eat while he is gone, and it is an offer we have a very difficult time refusing. The persimmons were a joyous discovery, but the one I ate this morning didn’t make much of a filling breakfast.

The man watches a few moments more as we look over the box, and then he begins making his way down the road that leads from the mountain, occasionally glancing back. He seems uneasy. Nervous, even. There were more crates in the shed, and I wonder if he thinks we’ll take advantage of his hospitality by helping ourselves to more than was offered. I wish I had the words to reassure him and tell him how grateful we are for what he’s given, but my bows only go so far.

When he is nearly out of sight around a curve in the road, Li Wei pauses in feasting to ask me, Do you think that in eating this, we’re taking away from our village’s rations?

I freeze midbite. It’s a terrible thought, and I glance down at the crate guiltily. We’ve each already eaten more than a normal ration in our village. After some thought, I shake my head. That would be poor hospitality on his part. I don’t think the line keeper is a man like that. He’s given us this as welcome, as a way of showing generosity. And clearly he has more. For the first time, I’m daring to hope this plan might truly result in change for my village—despite a worrisome voice in my head that keeps pointing out how things didn’t work out for that other village.

Li Wei chews some dried fruit, his brow furrowed in thought. I don’t think that’s the line keeper.

I raise an eyebrow. Who else would it be?

I don’t know, he admits. A servant? But don’t you think he behaved strangely? He’s so . . . unsure of himself. The line keeper always speaks with authority and seems so decisive. This man jumps at his own shadow.

I did think it was weird that he didn’t have paper or writing tools around, I concede. Especially with all the notes he writes us.

Li Wei nods. Exactly. Something doesn’t feel right. He gazes off down the road winding through the trees. Our host is long out of sight. I’m not sure if we should wait for him to come back. This might be a trap.

What kind of trap? I ask in surprise. And to what end?

I don’t know that either. It’s just my gut. But the gift of food aside, he didn’t seem very welcoming. I’m afraid of whom he’s going to bring back.

I point at the crate. But this is what we came for. It’s right in front of us. Food and the potential to feed our people! If we leave after he gifted us with this and told us to stay, what kind of message will that send? Where is the honor in that?

Li Wei is torn, and the irony of our situation isn’t lost on me. Until now, he has been the one so brazen and certain great things would come of this trip, while I worried. Now I am the one who wants to trust it will be fine, while he has doubts. He looks back down the road and makes a decision.

From what we know, that road probably leads to the township. If he’s seeking help or supplies, it makes sense that’s where he’d go. I say we go there ourselves and try to get a better sense of what’s going on—of what these people are like. If I’m wrong, we can apologize later, claim we didn’t understand his directions. If I am right, and there is something sinister going on . . . He doesn’t elaborate, and he doesn’t need to, not with the memory of the ghost village fresh in our minds. Instead, he simply shrugs and adds, Well, that’s what I think, at least. But I’m only the advisor.

I give a faint smile at the joke of referring to himself as xiangqi’s second most powerful piece, but there’s little humor in anything else. Between the line keeper’s strange behavior and what we read in the other village, it’s clear that caution is vital. Okay, I say. Let’s go. And let’s take some of this food with us. He did offer us the crate.

We follow the road away from the mountain, and I try not to think about how much farther I’m getting from the only home I’ve ever known. The road widens as we walk down it, the dirt smooth and hard-packed from many feet and wagons. I have read enough to know that our village is small in comparison to other settlements, that there are people in the world who live in much larger and more populated settlements and cities. The reality of that has never hit me until now, when I try to imagine the number of people who would require such a large road. Soon the road changes from dirt to flat stones, and that too is another surprise. We have nothing even remotely comparable in our small village.

I eventually detect sounds that indicate others are ahead of us, and I put out an arm to stop Li Wei. I motion that we should get off the road and walk where we will have the cover of the trees to keep us from immediate discovery. He agrees. We both want to believe the best of these new people, but we are also too tense from our dangerous journey here to assume anything or anyone is safe. We make the rest of our journey in the woods, keeping the road in sight. When we reach the township at last, however, it isn’t fear that dominates my emotions.