She was five when she asked about it.
Not the first time she had asked — she had been asking since she was three, in the way she asked most things, which was directly and without preamble, the question arriving before the context did. What's the empty page. Not a question with a question mark, because Mei did not, as Hana had noted in the household record she had begun keeping in a small notebook of her own, inflect upward at the ends of questions. She stated them, the way Nana stated true things.
The answer had been the same each time: It's yours. When you're ready.
She was five now, which she had decided was ready.
She told Hana on a Tuesday morning before school, standing in the doorway of Hana's room with the book held in both hands and her expression the one she had when she had made a decision and was announcing it rather than requesting permission.
Hana was fourteen.
