Free Death at the Crossroads by Dale Furutani

wasn’t poetic or imaginative, but Kaze decided that as a name it had the virtues of simplicity and clarity. He stepped into the shop.
    In the entrance was a square area with a dirt floor. It was surrounded by the raised wooden floor of the teahouse. Kaze sat on the edge of the floor and untied his traveling sandals. A serving girl in the shop spotted him and came to the entrance. With a deep bow she shouted, “
Irasshai!
Greetings!”
    Kaze nodded an acknowledgment and bent down to remove his footwear. When he straightened up, he was greeted by the sight ofthe girl holding out a pair of clean cotton tabi to him, an unexpected touch. He removed his dirty tabi and put on the clean socks.
    He followed the girl into the back of the teahouse. “Do you want a private room or the common room, samurai-sama?” the girl asked. Kaze considered his financial position and weighed it against his wish to be alone. His desire for solitude won.
    “A private room.”
    She escorted him into a small, four-mat room. He sank down to the tatami, shifting his sword to a more convenient position.
    “Sake?” the girl asked. Kaze noticed that she had grabbed the loose sleeve of her kimono and was twisting it between her fingers. He wondered if it was just a habit or if she was nervous about something.
    “No.
Ocha
. Tea. Before you go, can you tell me if there has been anyone new to this village in the last few years? I’m trying to find a nine-year-old girl. She might have been sold as a servant.”
    The girl gave him a puzzled look and said, “No, samurai-sama.”
    “All right. Just get the tea.”
    The girl scurried off while Kaze settled in. The thin paper walls did nothing to dampen sounds, but the teahouse was very quiet. Kaze thought he could have saved a little money because it sounded like the common room in the teahouse was as empty as his small private one. He sighed. Thoughts of money weren’t a worthy occupation for a samurai. Usually this was left to the samurai’s wife to worry about. A gripping sadness clutched at Kaze’s heart with the mere thought of a wife. His wife. His dead wife. Like the Lady, she was gone, too. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind.
    The girl returned with a teapot and cup. She placed them before Kaze and poured the tea. As soon as she put the teapot down, she started worrying the sleeve of her kimono again. “Do you want something to eat?” she said. “The rice isn’t made yet, but we have some delicious
oden
.”
    “Oden is fine. Bring it immediately. I’m hungry.”
    The girl rushed off to get his order. He picked up the cup andsipped at the hot, bitter tea. One good thing about his current life was that it had taught him to appreciate simple things: the joy of a cup of hot tea served without the ritual of the tea ceremony or the taste of a simple stew like oden.
    He could hear the rapid shuffle of the girl’s feet as she returned with his order. Suddenly, through the thin paper walls, he heard the girl stumble and the crash of a bowl hitting the floor. “Oh,” he heard the girl utter.
    Soon there was another, heavier set of feet approaching. It stopped, and the high-pitched voice of a man could be heard.
    “Stupid! What’s the matter with you?”
    “I was just rushing because the samurai said he was hungry and—”
    “Look, you’ve broken the bowl!”
    “But I—”
    “Damn it! I’m tired of your clumsiness! I don’t know why we ever bought you.”
    “I’m sorry, but I was—”
    “Don’t talk back to me!” Kaze heard the smack of a hand hitting a face, and a sharp, surprised yelp from the girl. Kaze tried to block out such unpleasantness and took another sip of his tea. Like all good Japanese, he willed himself not to hear what could be easily heard through the thin walls.
    A second, louder smack was heard. This time the girl cried out in pain. A third hit, and now the girl seemed frightened as well as in pain. Kaze sighed. He got up in one fluid motion and