The Hollow Guest

The *Tulou* was a fortress of rammed earth, a massive donut of clay and timber that turned its back on the mountains to stare inward at itself. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of wet moss, old frying oil, and the sweet, cloying scent of incense burning in the central courtyard.

Ken sat at the round table, sweating through his moisture-wicking t-shirt. He was the only one sweating. The rest of the clan—thirty aunts, uncles, and cousins he couldn't name—ate with a terrifying, synchronized efficiency.

* Slurp. Crunch. Swallow.*

Ken gripped his chopsticks too hard. He felt like a child fumbling with two pencils. He was twenty-four, a software engineer from San Jose, and he was currently losing a battle against a slippery piece of braised pork belly.

"Chi, chi," his Popo urged, piling more bok choy into his bowl. She sat next to him, a tiny, withered woman with skin like crushed parchment paper. Her smile was benevolent, but her eyes were black beads that didn't seem to reflect the red lantern light.

"Xie xie, Popo," Ken mumbled. His tones were flat. He knew they were flat. Across the table, his cousin Wei smirked. Wei didn't speak English, but the look was universal: *The American. The fake.*

Ken’s hand spasmed with anxiety. The pork belly slipped from his chopsticks, bounced off the rim of his bowl, and fell to the dirt floor.

The table went silent. The rhythmic chewing stopped.

"Sorry," Ken said, his face burning hot. "My bad."

He ducked under the table to retrieve it. It was dark down there, a forest of wooden legs and cheap plastic shoes. He reached for the glistening cube of meat near Wei’s chair.

Ken paused.

Wei’s leg was there. But it wasn't wearing a pant leg. It wasn't even skin.

The calf of Wei’s leg had melted. The flesh had lost its definition, spreading out like warm wax, fusing seamlessly into the wooden leg of the chair. There was no seam, no blood. Just a continuous, fleshy slope merging man into furniture.

Ken blinked, his breath hitching in his throat. He reached out a trembling finger to touch it.

"Kenny?"

Popo’s voice snapped from above.

Ken jerked his head up, banging it against the underside of the table. He scrambled back into his seat, clutching the dirty pork belly.

He looked across at Wei.

Wei was eating a chicken foot, stripping the cartilage with his teeth. He smiled at Ken. It was a perfect, white smile. Under the table, Ken saw Wei shift his legs. Both of them moved freely.

* Jet lag,* Ken told himself, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. *It’s just the jet lag. The humidity. The stress.*

"Eat," Popo said, patting his hand. Her skin felt strange—cool and dry, like unbaked dough. "You are too thin. You need to become strong. Like us."