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doesn’t? What if it’s only a matter of time before I’m like the others? Before everything goes dark?
Tears glitter in her eyes, and she obstinately blinks them back.
I should tell our masters and give up the apprenticeship now. It’s the honorable thing to do.
    No!
I tell her.
You can’t.
    They’ll eventually find out
, she insists.
Can you imagine the disgrace then, when they throw me out on the streets?
    No
, I repeat, even though a secret, scared part of me fears she is right.
Don’t say anything. I’ll keep covering for you, and we’ll find a way to fix this.
    How?
The smile she gives me is sweet but also full of sorrow.
Some things are beyond even you, Fei
.
    I look away, fearing my own eyes will fill with tears at the frustration I feel over my sister’s fate.
    Come on
, she says.
We don’t want to be late.
    We continue on our way, walking along the cliffside path, and my heart is heavy. I won’t admit it to her, but this might indeed be beyond me. I might dream incredible things and have the skills to paint any vision into reality, but even I can’t restore sight itself. It’s a humbling and depressing thought, one that so consumes me that I don’t even notice the crowd of people until we practically walk into them.
    This path that traces the village’s edge goes past the station where the suppliers receive shipments from the township below. It looks as though the first shipment of the day has arrived up the zip line and is about to be distributed. While that’s often a cause for excitement, I rarely see it draw this many people, which makes me think something unusual is happening. Amid the sea of dull brown clothing, I spy a spot of blue and recognize another artist apprentice, Min. This is her observation post.
    I tug her sleeve, drawing her attention to me.
What’s happening?
    They sent a letter to the keeper a few days ago, telling him we need more food, that we cannot survive with the recent cuts
, she explains.
His response has just arrived with this shipment.
    My breath catches. The line keeper. Communication with him is rare. He’s the one our existence depends on, the one who decides what supplies come up the line to us from the township. Without him, we have nothing. Hope surges in me as I join the others to learn the news. The keeper is a great and powerful man. Surely he’ll help us.
    I watch with the others as the lead supplier unrolls the letterthat came up with the food. The letter was tied with a tiny green ribbon that he clutches as he reads, and for a moment, I’m transfixed by it. I shift my gaze back to the man’s face as his eyes scan the letter. I can tell from his expression that the news isn’t going to be good. A flurry of emotions plays over him, both sad and angry. At last, he gives the letter to an assistant and then stands on a crate so that we can all see his hands as he addresses the crowd.
    The keeper says: “You receive less food because you send less metal. If you want more food, send more metal. That is balance. That is honor. That is harmony in the universe.”
    The lead supplier pauses, but there is a tension in the way he stands, the way he holds his hands up, that tells us there is more to the message. After several seconds, he continues sharing the rest of the letter, though it’s obviously with reluctance:
“What you have suggested is an insult to the generosity we have shown you these long years. As punishment, rations will be reduced for the next week. Perhaps then you will better understand balance.”
    I feel my jaw drop, and chaos breaks out. Shock and outrage fill everyone’s faces, and hands sign so fast that I can only catch snippets of conversation:
    Reduced? We can’t survive on what we have—
    How can we get more metals? Our miners are going blind and—
    It’s not our fault we can’t mine as much! Why should we be punished