Hi, I'm Tracy Chi. I'll be reading from We Are Not Free, a novel in stories about the Japanese-American incarcerations of World War II. This excerpt is from Chapter 2 when, in early 1943, half of Japan town San Francisco has gotten their eviction orders from the federal government, and they're having to sell off their belongings because they're only allowed to take two suitcases when they're shipped off to the detention centers. Over the weekend, signs pop up all around the neighborhood, evacuation sale, furniture sale, big sale, prices smashed. Me, Mass, Mino, Twichi, and Frankie get together to help out the guys who have to leave. At Stan Katsumoto's family grocery, we sort through the shelves, marking down prices on rice and kombu and tea. When Mass isn't paying attention, I tag in with a 50% off sticker and Twichi adds a five-cent tag to the seat of his pants. One of the other fell as snickers. Me and Twichi smother our laughter and stick Mass with six more tags before Mrs. Katsumoto looks up from the counter and goes, I ya, what are you doing? Massara is a handsome boy, we can get at least a dolly for him. I wish I could tell you what Mass' space looks like, but me and Twichi are already out the door. We're running down the block as Mass roars after us. When we break for lunch, Mrs. Katsumoto posts a note on the door beneath the words, I am an American. It's a message to their customers, thanking them for 20 years of patronage. Stan, Stair is at it for a second, and Cox is eyebrow. You sure about this, Ma? We don't want them to get the wrong idea about us. What wrong idea, Mrs. Katsumoto asks? That we're decent people or something. What's wrong with that? Decent people don't kick out other decent people, so if we're decent, they can't be decent. You're going to cause an existential crisis, Ma? If white people aren't decent, are they anything? She sighs and presses down a bit of tape with her thumbnail. It's the right thing to do for us. For us, the buzzing returns sharp and metallic. You think other people to make death feel good, and good is the last thing anyone should feel about what's happening to us. Mr. Katsumoto says nothing. He lowers his head over the counter, silently marking down packages of Umoboshi. Thank you.