My name is Douding — Little Bean — because I'm the smallest in the pens.
I'm terrified of the dark. Truly — back on Flower-Fruit Mountain, at sundown I'd burrow into my mother's arms. Here, where no daylight exists, I cried every day for a month. Then I stopped — not from losing the fear, but because Grandpa Xuemei taught me a trick: if you fear the dark, keep the fire.
So now I keep the torches of the pens.
Nine torches in the pens; the little yao give oil for three a day. I've lined them up: two for the passage, one for the pen gate, two for the eldest, and the rest go to whichever wounded one has the worst night ahead. One torch lit is one less piece of dark inside. That's what Grandpa Xuemei says.
But last ten-day, something strange began. The oil started going further.
Oil for three torches, and by my roster four are burning. At first I thought I was rationing well. Then I got up at night to top up — and the oil jar was full.
Someone refills my jar at night.
Not the little yao — they'd love us in the dark. Not my pen-mates — the jar is locked, and the lock sleeps in my arms. Which means something that doesn't touch locks is pouring oil in.
I've told no one. A creature of the dark knows this: if something in the dark is willing to fill your lamp, it probably isn't here to eat you.
So now, every night, I set one extra torch beside the oil jar, and light it, lighting nothing.
Call it a thank-you gift.