“You know,” he said, turning serious, “there’s a saying that once you save someone’s life, that you’re responsible for it. It’s an old… African chant.” I gaped at him. “African?” He nodded. “From Africa.” “That’s a Chinese proverb. Not an African chant.” “What’s Chinese?” he asked, further confused. “What you said about saving someone’s life. That’s Chinese.” He shrugged. “I don’t speak Asian. I want to go there, though. One day.” “To Asia?” He nodded. “Where in Asia?” “The Asian places,” he explained, dead serious. “I’ve always wondered if the fortune cookies taste different there.”
