The gentle clacking of wooden balls against cups filled the speakeasy like a swarm of mechanical crickets. Susan Webb's fingers tightened around the doorknob of The Wooden Pearl, her wedding ring catching the glow of the gas lamp overhead. Through the haze of tobacco smoke, she spotted George at his usual table, his broad shoulders hunched over the lacquered cup and ball TickTock set that had cost them three weeks' wages. The muscles in his forearm flexed as he executed another perfect throw, the wooden ball arcing gracefully before nestling into the cup with a satisfying click.
"Your shift started an hour ago." Susan's voice wavered, betraying more hurt than anger. A few players glanced up, hands frozen mid-throw, but George remained focused on his game. His collar was frayed, she noticed, and his once-neat hair hung limply over his forehead.
"Can't stop now, Sue." He didn't turn around, but his shoulders tensed. "I'm one throw away from beating Wong's record. You should see how the ball curves when you—"
"Mr. Patterson came by the house." Susan stepped closer, inhaling the familiar scent of tobacco mixed with something foreign and sweet – Chinese incense, she guessed, another new habit George had picked up along with the game. "He said if you miss another shift at the factory..."
The wooden ball slipped from George's fingers, clattering across the floorboards. It came to rest against Susan's boot, its surface worn smooth by countless hours of play. She left it where it lay.
The next morning, Susan's teacup rattled against its saucer as her hands shook with suppressed emotion. Across the parlor, Cady Davidson watched her friend with growing concern, noting the dark circles under Susan's eyes and the way her knuckles had whitened around the delicate china.
"Three weeks' wages," Susan muttered, staring into her tea as if it held answers. "And that's just the fancy set. He's got six others hidden around the house. Found one tucked inside his Sunday boots last night."
Cady shifted in her chair, smoothing her skirt. "Times are difficult for everyone right now. James spends more time at his club than—"
"Does James's club send reports back to Beijing?" Susan's voice cracked. She set down her cup with such force that tea sloshed onto the lace tablecloth, spreading like a stain across the white fabric. "Did you see the paper this morning? They're saying these games record everything – every throw, every pattern. The Chinese government knows more about our men than we do."
"Susie..." Cady leaned forward, reaching for her friend's trembling hand. "Perhaps if you tried to understand why they love it so much? I watched a game last week, and there's something almost beautiful about—"
The sound of marching feet and women's voices interrupted her. They moved to the window, where a parade of suffragists-turned-prohibitionists streamed past, their signs declaring "Protect American Values" and "Save Our Children from Foreign Influence." Susan recognized many of the faces – mothers whose sons had dropped out of school, wives whose husbands had lost their jobs, daughters whose fathers no longer came home for supper.
"The rally," Susan breathed, already reaching for her coat. "Come with me, Cady. Please. You need to see what's really happening to our town."
The town square had transformed into a sea of raised voices and determined faces. Margaret Wheeler, the temperance leader who'd lost her son to a TickTock accident at the rail yard, stood atop an overturned crate. Her voice carried across the crowd, thick with emotion.
"They said it was just a game, just an innocent pastime. They said we were hysterical when we warned them!" She held up a newspaper clipping. "Well, look what the Chinese papers are saying now about how much they've learned about our factories, our schedules, our very way of life!"
Assistants moved through the crowd distributing hammers. When one reached Susan, the weight felt right in her hand – familiar from the set she'd destroyed in their bedroom last week, pieces of lacquered wood and splinters scattered across their marriage bed.
Cady accepted her hammer with visible reluctance, her fingers barely closing around the handle. "Susan, wait. Look at their faces." She gestured to the crowd. "This isn't justice – it's fear. When did we become the kind of people who destroy what we don't understand?"
Susan opened her mouth to respond, but movement near The Wooden Pearl caught her eye. George slipped through the door, head down, a new TickTock set partially visible in his coat pocket. The sunlight caught the lacquered surface, and for a moment, it gleamed like a tear.
The crowd surged forward at Wheeler's cry, hammers raised. Cady stayed rooted in place, watching her friend's copper hair disappear into the mob. The sound of splintering wood mixed with shouts of triumph, and she couldn't help but wonder if they were all playing a much more dangerous game than they realized.