Yongde straightened and turned to leave. His steps were steady, utterly unlike when he had arrived.
At the doorway, he pulled the door open.
Quite a few people were outside.
Wukong squatted below the steps, twirling a blade of grass he had plucked from somewhere.
Bajie lay sprawled on the steps, his head tilted back as he patted his belly and watched the moon.
Little White Dragon leaned against a corridor pillar, his arms folded.
Sha Wujing stood at the far end, palms pressed together, softly chanting sutras.
Yongde paused briefly. Without a word, he turned sideways to clear the passage, pressed his palms together, and bowed slightly before walking past the four of them.
Only after Yongde's back disappeared around a bend in the corridor did Wukong rise, casually dust himself off, and step inside.
"Master."
Grinning, he walked over to the table, snatched up a piece of fruit, and bit off a great mouthful with a crunch.
"Are you tired or not, venerable Master?"
Wukong dragged over a chair and straddled it with easy abandon, its back facing forward. Draping both arms over it, he teased between mouthfuls:
"Last night you met a ghost in your dreams. Today you took the stage to debate the Way with a bodhisattva. You finally found a moment to rest for the night, only to end up giving that old monk extra lessons. Weren't you just born to toil?"
The bed gave a low creak.
Bajie had come in too. He collapsed onto the bedding like a puddle of mud, patting his belly with a plump hand.
"Brother Monkey, don't you know Master by now?"
"Wherever his feet land, his worries follow. Fetching scriptures has turned into treating ailments. We're less a band of wandering monks than a pack of itinerant doctors."