He looks at my passport, and I know something is not right.
The bank teller stares at my currency exchange form and gives me a look I can’t decipher. My stay in Zhangjiajie is ending, and I need some yuan to catch the last train out.
His fingers tap the desk anxiously, adding an uneasy percussion to the mellow humming of the air-conditioner and the murmured vocals of the other clients behind me. “You from what country?” he asks in broken English.
The Philippines. His brows meet.