During the Ming Dynasty, cricket fighting became an obsession that consumed an entire province. The imperial court maintained a Cricket Bureau. Private citizens sold their houses for a single prize cricket.

One poor family's fate turned on the capture of a single extraordinary cricket. The boy who found it could not believe what he held in his hands — a cricket the size of a fist, with mandibles like steel hooks, that moved with the speed and intelligence of a warrior.

He brought it to his father. "This will feed us for a year," the boy said.

The cricket won every fight. The family ate well. They built a new house. Then came a summons from the provincial governor — a man who had lost his champion to this mysterious cricket and wanted it for himself.

The boy had no choice. He delivered the cricket to the governor's palace.

That night, the boy dreamed of a tiny warrior in golden armor, kneeling before him. "You saved my life," the cricket said. "But now I must save yours. Tomorrow, the governor will lose me intentionally. He will blame you. You must leave before dawn."

The boy woke. He packed a small bag and fled into the mountains. Behind him, he heard the governor's guards searching the village.

In the mountains, he found a cave. And in the cave, a woman — ancient, wrapped in grasscloth — who was making a chessboard from crickets' wings.

"Another one who runs," she said. "Sit. Watch."

She showed him the game. Each cricket on the board was a real person. He recognized himself. He recognized the governor. He recognized the cricket he had captured.

"Why?" the boy asked.

"Because someone has to remember that the games we play with small lives are noticed by larger forces. Now go. You have three more years to run. Use them well."

The boy did not understand. He ran anyway.