Free Hour of the Rat by Lisa Brackmann

imported beer, free Wi-Fi, and rock-climbing expeditions. Well, okay. The front is dark wood, with a hanging sign depicting a bright yellow lizard, which I guess is a gecko.
    Inside are wooden tables, potted and hanging plants. Photos of mountains and rock climbers. One wall has a rack of equipment—packs, shoes, clothing, metal spikes, a bunch of coiled ropes. The music is groovy Brazilian jazz. And yeah, a lot of foreigners, most with that rangy, “We like fresh air, nuts, and leafy greens!” look.
    The waitstaff is Chinese, though. Typical. You don’t have to pay them as much.
    I sit at an empty table and order an overpriced Sierra Nevada. They don’t even offer Liquan here.
    The waitress who brings me my beer is young, short-haired, wearing a long-sleeved Gecko T-shirt and a fleece vest.
    “Thanks,” I say. “Can I ask you a question?”
    She nods, smiling, expecting, I’d bet, that I want to knowabout rock climbing, or river rafting, or some other healthy outdoor shit they go for around here.
    “This man, have you seen him?” I hold out Jason’s photo.
    She takes it, curious. Crouches down a little so she can scrutinize it under the table lamp. And something in her expression shifts. I’m sure of it. Her eyes dart sideways, like she’s looking over her shoulder.
    “
Deng yixia
,” she says, springing up. Wait a moment. She leaves the photo on the table.
    I have a big swallow of Sierra Nevada, feeling this slow burn of excitement. It’s something I’m not used to: the sense that I might actually be getting somewhere.
    Maybe I’ll find out where he is, I think. Or at least that he’s okay. Something I can tell Dog, something to make him feel a little better.
    The guy who comes over to my table is tall. Blond. Older than me by a decade at least, but built like a basketball player, tall and muscular. Like the waitress, he’s wearing a fleece vest, but his is Patagonia, and his T-shirt doesn’t have a logo.
    “Can I help you with something?” he asks.
    His English is flawless, but there’s a hint of an accent there. Maybe German, or Dutch, or Scandinavian.
    “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m looking for this guy.”
    I flip my hand at the paper on the table, the image cracked where I’d folded it. But you can still see Jason, with his dreamy brown eyes.
    The guy makes a show of studying it. “I don’t think I know him,” he finally says.
    “You sure about that?”
    “Well, no.” He smiles at me. He’s got a thin face with prominent cheekbones and a high-bridged, long nose, like one of those knight statues you see laid out on top ofa medieval tomb. “We have a lot of foreigners who come through here.”
    “Yeah, so I heard.”
    “So why are you looking for this one?” he asks, in a deliberately casual way.
    “I’m friends with his family. His brother, Dog … uh, Doug. They don’t know where he is, and they’re worried about him.”
    “I see.” He pretends to study the photograph a moment longer. Then pushes it toward me with his long, knotted fingers. Wrapped with scars, from all those ropes they use for rock climbing, maybe.
    “Sorry. Don’t think I recognize him.”
    He’s lying, I’m sure of it.
    “Look,” I say, frustrated, “all we want is to know that Jason’s okay.”
    “Jason?” For an instant the guy’s brow furrows. Then he composes himself. “Wish I could help.”
    You fucking liar, I think.
    “So what’s
your
name?” I ask.
    “Erik,” he says. “And yours?”
    “Ellie. This your place?”
    “I’m one of the owners,” he says easily. “Will you be in Yangshuo for a while?”
    “I’m not sure. Depends on what I find to do around here.”
    “Well, if you’re interested in rock climbing, or white-water rafting, or hiking, just let me know.” He smiles. “I’d be happy to set you up.”
    I WALK OUT OF the Gecko, and I’m so pissed off.
    Erik recognized Jason. I’m sure of it. The way he reacted, I’m guessing he knows Jason by another name.