Trofilos looked unassuming enough at first glance, but the people who lived there made it obvious that this was no regular city. It seemed that every other person walking down the street was speaking a different language, and many of the shops' signs were bilingual.

  Ever since he'd arrived at the city, Vicente had been trying to get used to staying at yet another unfamiliar place. Unlike Arlingdale, where only Japanese and Korean were alien to him, Trofilos seemed to have a bit of everywhere in the world in it and it felt so international that the UN headquarters could be located there and nobody would be surprised.

  On the day he arrived, after he'd barely set his bags down, Leon had dragged him around the city on an unofficial tour. Having gotten around four hours of sleep the night before, Vicente barely remembered any of it, but he had vague memories of boys yelling at each other in German, a mother making a phone call outside a supermarket in rapid-fire Farsi, and almost getting run over by a car then being screamed at by the Portuguese-speaking driver.

  Surprisingly, he and his siblings appeared to be the only Chinese people in Trofilos. The spot Yao had rented out for his restaurant stuck out with the huge Chinese characters on the sign, especially since it was sandwiched between two of the few stores in the city with English-only signs.

  The characters "黃記" — "Huang's" — were painted dark red on the white sign, bordered by drawings of plum flowers and birds, no doubt Ling's work. The inside of the restaurant was still pretty empty with only a few round wooden tables scattered around the still-bare walls, and it looked a little like the tea restaurants he'd been to in Hong Kong with their geometric tiled floors and plain, modest furniture. The kitchen was the fullest part of the place, of course, being twice the size of the kitchen in Arlingdale and a million times better-stocked.

  Even the apartment above Huang's, where they'd stay once the day was through, felt nicer and more welcoming than their old one. It was smaller, messier (a lot messier) and older, but it made Vicente think of the tiny apartment he, Yao and Leon had stayed in when they were living in Hong Kong. Even though they bickered almost every day about who'd get to shower first and blamed each other for using up all the hot water, Vicente felt more at home than he'd ever been. But again, since his previous homes had consisted of arguing parents and passive-aggressive, controlling stepmothers, passing that standard was pretty easy.

  He and Leon shared a room, as did Yao and Ling, just like they had all their lives. The only difference was that he and Leon slept on bunk beds; he took the top bunk while Leon took the bottom. It was the other way around for the first few days he lived at the apartment, but after Leon rolled off his bunk in his sleep and broke his nose one day, he proposed swapping bunks to protect the rest of his face. Vicente didn't mind, especially since it meant he wouldn't have to clean his brother's blood off the floor another time.

  A week after he arrived, Huang's officially opened. Yao announced that he'd somehow do all the cooking, while Leon and Vicente acted as waiters and Ling ran the register. Vicente had no idea how his brother would manage all the orders and make sure they were served hot, all at the same time all by himself, but he didn't protest. Even as he watched Yao whip up dish after dish and longed to join him, he stayed silent and tried not to wince when he picked up the hot plates and bowls.

  They didn't get that many customers. Maybe it was because of where they were located in Trofilos, or the fact that Huang's didn't look all that flashy. Maybe people just didn't like Chinese food. But unlike the other, bigger restaurants around, only a few people showed up every day — enough that they could scrape by with rent and buying ingredients, but that was all.

  Sometimes in the kitchen, Vicente found Yao making dishes he hadn't seen in years. One afternoon, one customer ordered wonton noodles. Another night, he carried a plate of barbequed pork with a savoury-sweet glaze of honey and soy sauce to a table. When the restaurant closed, Ling brought a few bowls of leftover tofu fa back to the apartment along with a bag of yellow sugar for them to tuck into. It was like Yao was travelling back in time with his cooking, bringing them back to their childhood years. Vicente found himself caught up in a wave of nostalgia every other day.

  He never made any of the dishes their stepmother had served, and nobody said anything about it.

  Every week, Yao sent one of them to the Asian market back in Arlingdale to buy the ingredients they'd need. Vicente had gone once, wondering just how somebody could possibly stuff over forty-eight different cultures into one market. But, through a miracle perhaps, they somehow managed. The first time he'd gone, he'd been so enchanted by the place that he stayed for longer than he expected he would — Yao had to call him to make sure he hadn't gotten in trouble.

  The market was like a world of its own, selling everything from pearl rice to tempe. Some customers bargained in Japanese, some shopkeepers advertised their goods in Hokkien, groups of shoppers gossiped in Tagalog. It took Vicente ages to find a stall that sold what he needed to buy, and even then the shopkeeper had told him prices in such speedy Mandarin that he'd almost died of embarrassment as he asked her to repeat them. He'd left with bags full of dried tofu puffs, both dark and light soy sauce, winter melons and more.

  The best surprise arrived when he found Kiku at one of the stalls, bartering with the shopkeeper to lower the prices of his niboshi. Vicente yelled her name from five stalls away, waving when his stepsister spun around in search of him, looking alarmed. Then they'd left the market and shared a box of the niboshi — baby sardines marinated in soy sauce and mirin — Kiku had bought while chatting. Their stepmother, according to Kiku, was still blatantly ignoring their disappearances while their father was too preoccupied with work to do anything about it. Vicente gave her the address to Huang's and their apartment, assuring her that she still had a place with them if she wanted to leave, and the restaurant could use another pair of hands.

  Kiku had refused again with a sad, defeated smile; their stepmother had apparently secured a spot for her in their father's company for when she graduated university. "Maybe one day," she'd said wistfully. "I'd love to see the rest of you again. If I ever find the guts to stand up to Mother, I'll come work at your restaurant." She picked up another one of the savoury-sweet sardines by the tail and popped it into her mouth. "I don't think I'll ever be as brave as you four, but I'll try."

  They parted once the sun descended into the horizon, and Kiku gave Vicente a box of homemade matcha cookies to share with his siblings. Then she'd left for Arlingdale and Vicente for Trofilos.

  It had hurt, seeing Kiku walk back to a household where she was mistreated and looked down upon. But she wanted to stay, and Vicente doubted he could convince somebody as stubborn as Kiku to change her mind. Still, as he looked at her vanishing silhouette in the fading light, Vicente thanked Kiku for giving him the final push he needed to leave.