Final Flight by Beth Cato

of the album. Static screeched through the horn and then the twanged notes of the shamisen rang through. The three-­stringed instrument resembled an American banjo, and here it played a short, simple melody in repetition for some thirty minutes. Not that she would need to play the album for that long.
    â€œThen we have enough time for this. Here,” she said, motioning to the rug.
    He didn’t look enthusiastic, but he still walked over and lowered himself to the floor.
    She knelt to face him and tilted an ear toward the Graphophone, her hands poised in midair. Simultaneously, she and Mr. Sakaguchi clapped hands to a beat of three. She quickly moved her hands to make two Vs atop her head—­fox ears—­while at the same time Mr. Sakaguchi briefly rested his hands on his lap.
    Ingrid cackled. She won that round—­a kitsune’s magic could bewitch a chief. Mr. Sakaguchi’s face twitched as they began the clapping again. This time, she positioned her hands as if on a rifle, with her right hand on a trigger and her left extended like the barrel of a gun. Mr. Sakaguchi made fox ears. The hunter’s gun could kill the kitsune. She won again.
    â€œAt least try,” she teased.
    He did—­the next round, he laid his hands on his lap again to symbolize the role of the chief, outranking Ingrid’s hand motion of the hunter with a gun.
    The twanged music played on as they continued. A regular game of kitsune-­ken ended after a player won thrice, but Ingrid didn’t care about the numbers. They found the rhythm. Ingrid made fox ears and stuck out her tongue. Mr. Sakaguchi burst out laughing.
    His next motion of the rifle turned into wiggling fingers as if he threatened to tickle her like when she was a little girl—­an act that used to make her screech and roll with giggles without a hand being laid on her.
    Kitsune-­ken had been played for centuries in Japan along with a number of other hand-­gesture games. This was one their favorite, though, because it was about a fantastic. Kitsune were powerful fox spirits known for their wiles and shapeshifting. Something about the game—­about play-­acting a being of power—­inspired Ingrid to puff her cheeks, blow raspberries, and turn her pointy fox ears into arm-­long ears like a donkey.
    Happy tears streamed down Mr. Sakaguchi’s cheeks. He gasped for breath as he doubled over in deep laughter. Cozy warmth filled Ingrid’s chest as she looked on him. This was how Mr. Sakaguchi should be—­his spirit buoyant, eyes bright, a smile branded on his lips, even if it was to her aggravation.
    A bell chimed in the hallway; time for the meeting to resume. She turned off the Graphophone.
    Mr. Sakaguchi wiped his cheeks with his sleeve. A few final laughs wheezed from him as he stood. “Well. I believe you won, Ingrid.”
    â€œI wasn’t keeping score.”
    â€œI wasn’t either, but you still won.”
    They entered the hallway as some adepts rushed by. She glanced back at him. “If you need another reason to cheer up, remember that Lincoln premieres the day after tomorrow.”
    She was puzzled when his smile diminished. “I do hope I can still attend.”
    â€œOf course you can attend! There’s no reason for you to be called away. You’ll even have protesters lined up outside the Damcyan Theatre.” At that reminder, he grinned.
    Mr. Sakaguchi was a fiend for opera, and had been delighted that a company dared to perform Lincoln in San Francisco. It had outraged critics for a decade with the parallels it drew between Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation and his late-­life work on behalf of the Chinese in America. The fact that Mr. Sakaguchi would attend such a pro-­Chinese—­and therefore anti-­Japanese—­work might raise a few eyebrows, but he had a reputation for attending every operatic performance in the city. He was also