Three bamboo poles on the table. One split at the tip.
Lina pushed the split one away with the side of her hand. The table held old white glue scars, and her sleeve snagged on one when she leaned in too far.
The spool of kite line sat near her wrist, looped once around it from the last rinse, the cord warm and tacky, as if it meant to stay there until the job stopped wobbling.
Milo had one hand on the cloth bundle already. Of course he did.
The worktable smelled of rice glue and dry reed dust. That smell belonged to the stall now, along with the chipped bowl for water, the blue apron with flour on the hem, and the little nail where Aunt Tala hung the knife when she wanted to keep everyone honest.
'Aunt Tala said leave the spare reed alone,' Lina said, and slid the bundle back under the table with her foot before Milo could thumb the knot loose.
He made a face. 'I can hold it.'
'You can carry the basin.'
'That is not fair.'
'The basin,' she said again.
Aunt Tala stood by the stove with her bent thumb pressing the lid of the glue pot. 'Frame first,' she said.
Her voice did not move much. It did not need to. Lina set the knife beside the bamboo and kept her fingers around the middle pole, where the bark had already been shaved smooth and pale. The left pole bowed a little where the knife had slipped yesterday, and that little bow made the whole pile look unsure of itself.
Lina moved the split pole farther away. Not because it deserved punishment. Because the table only had room for one bad idea at a time.