“I am,” he muttered. “A grammar dragon. With three heads. Nakereba naranai .”

Kenji’s Vietnamese assistant, Lan, had laughed when she saw him hunched over it last Tuesday.

Kenji wasn’t a student anymore. He was thirty-four, a former automotive engineer from Nagoya who had been transferred to a joint venture in Ho Chi Minh City six months ago. His Japanese colleagues had warned him: “Learn English. Or better, learn Vietnamese.” But Kenji had pride. He was the one from the headquarters. He should not be struggling to order phở without pointing.

Kenji chewed his pen. Furereba? Futtara? The book’s revenge was subtle: furu (to fall) becomes futtara (if it falls). He wrote it down. Then he wrote a second sentence below the answer box, on the margin: “Yuko-san ga isogashikereba, watashi wa matsu.” (If Yuko is busy, I will wait.)

Some dragons aren’t slain. They’re simply outgrown, one te-form at a time.

She didn’t understand the word revenge in that context. But she understood the effort. She wrote her phone number on the napkin.

“ Kenji-san ,” she said, “ sono nihongo, kanpeki desu. ” (That Japanese is perfect.)

The workbook had tried to break him. But in the end, he had turned its revenge into his own victory.

The workbook lay open on the low kotatsu table, its edges softened from use. Page 47. Fukushuu D . The review section for lessons 10 through 12.

That night, Kenji opened the workbook to Fukushuu D one last time. He looked at the battered page, the crossed-out particles, the desperate marginalia. He smiled.

Yuko handed him his anpan.

He wasn’t supposed to write there. The workbook belonged to the company’s language class. But revenge was personal.