Thursday afternoon, the weekly care-case report came back rejected for the second time.
His write-up: "Client expresses understanding; mood stable." Feng Tuo's comment was one word: Action.
On the booking page he picked Friday, ten a.m., DA-P03. The system approved it in a second. Ticket type, auto-generated: Care Pilot · Deep Visit No. 2. The approver field was blank.
In the dropdown, "care pilot" sat below "disposal notification"; once he selected it, a line of small print surfaced: visits of this type do not count against disposal-action metrics; they are sampled into OKR.
At Monday's morning meeting Feng Tuo read out the recovery rates. At the Guanzhong zone he paused, named no one. They crossed paths at the elevator afterward; Feng Tuo said, "Be specific in the weekly report. What date, who you saw, what was said. Two hundred characters is enough."
Tuesday he paid out a hundred and five. The text message called it "Payment on behalf · queue occupancy fee." Balance 3,252.62. That day a popup had shown him one line: paying the queue occupancy fee on behalf does not halt the schedule's countdown, does not alter the terminal disposal date. He paid it anyway.
Friday morning he emptied his water bottle, flicked the last of it into the sink. Passing the noodle shop, the owner was taping a sheet of red paper to the glass—winter specials—didn't look up.
At the west end of the third floor, the "maintenance" plastic sign still hung on DA-P02's door, its corner curled a little further. The whiteboard read "Accesses this month: 4." Last month's line, the one that wouldn't wipe clean, was still there, slanting beneath the numbers.
Wu Yan was blowing dust off a keyboard. A pink rubber blower, squeeze by squeeze.
"Work badge."
Scan the code, fingerprint. Right index finger; it read on the first try.
"Blood pressure."
Same cuff as before, the Velcro pilled. The numbers came up: 129/83, pulse 92.
"Lower than last time," Wu Yan said. "Good thing."
"Mm."
"No food, no water. Sign here."
He signed. Applicant's own statement. Second time seeing those words; he signed faster than the first.
On the bench sat an old man in a cotton-padded cap, a cloth bundle in his arms, the wrapper tied in a cross knot. Down the corridor a number was called: DA-P04. The old man stood, held the bundle tight against him; passing the doorframe, his cap scraped it and shed a wisp of fluff.
Two minutes to ten, Wu Yan called from inside a door: P03.
Same chair. The torn patch on the armrest had new leather now, a shade darker all around, like a darn. Two patches at the back of his neck, two at his temples; the conductive gel cold, still smelling of paste.
Three checkboxes; he ticked them one by one.
[Pre-authorization frozen: 60.00 yuan. Settlement on disconnect is by actual duration; anything under one minute is billed as one minute.]
The small-print line was still there: this visit's fees merge into the outstanding balance of account AC-0417.
10:01. Loading.
The cold came first.
Behind the door, napa cabbages stood stacked one on another, up to waist height; on the ones further in, the outer leaves had dried and wilted down against the heart. No water on the stove. She sat on her folding stool, an insole spread open on her knee, the thimble on the second joint of her index finger, the thread wound twice around her middle finger.
A wall calendar hung pinned to the wall, landscape paintings; the month page hadn't been torn off. She looked up, saw him; the thread in her hands didn't stop.
"You're here," she said. "Cold out. Shut the door."
He shut the door. The corridor outside was gone; behind him was wall, a hand towel hanging on it, the towel gone stiff, folded in two and standing.
"Eaten yet?"
"Eaten."
"Drink some water before you talk. Your lips are peeling," she said. "Kettle's got yesterday's water, still warm."
"Not drinking."
"Suit yourself."
Top right: 28:14.
She stitched her insole. Row after row, the stitches running slant. The thimble worn bright. Seven or eight stitches, then she drew the needle through her hair, and stitched on.
"These insoles are for you," she said. "You take a forty-two, thick feet; they have to be stitched close or they flatten in three days."
"Mm."
"What's the date today—past the tenth?" she asked.
"The eighth."
"November eighth?"
"December."
The needle in her hand paused a beat. "November's never this cold," she said. "I should've bought cabbage long since. Look at my memory." She lifted her chin toward the stack behind the door. "In the years it was five cents a catty, your grandma carried a string bag, twenty heads a trip on her back, shedding leaves the whole way, two little kids trailing behind picking them up."
She gave a short laugh and went on stitching.
"Fewer heads this year." She counted them off toward the door. "Twenty-three. Other years by now it'd be forty at least, stacked up the stairwell; you could see at a glance who had how many. Your pa stacked his neatest—roots facing out, one layer pressed on the next, like laying bricks."
She pushed the topmost head a little further in.
"Paid the heating for your room yet?"
"Paid."
"How much."
"Twenty-eight a square meter."
"Twenty-eight." She turned the number over in her mouth. "Highway robbery."
"Chuan Chuan called last week," she said. "Two sentences and he hung up. Is it that phone of his, the signal's gone thin? A man in trade—end of the year, the creditors standing at his door—he's busy. When you see him, tell him: change the phone, keep the number."
"Mm."
"It doesn't cost Ma anything to pick up here," she said. "If he's busy, have him call in. One ring and hang up—even that works. Ma sees that number, she knows he's all right."
He didn't answer.
The red dot sat in the lower left corner, not blinking. Three years of words, all of them passing through there.
She finished one insole, wound the thread once around her middle finger, got up and reached for the side panel of the range hood. That bill's corner had curled up; she pressed it flat with her thumb.
"This slip's been stuck here two years," she said. "The date's run, can't read it. And nobody comes to read the meter on this side."
"Nobody comes."
"Nobody comes." She took her hand away. "Saves worry."
She sat back down and stitched on.
She finished a row, wound the thread once more around her middle finger, looked up.
"Xiao Cheng, Ma wants to ask you something." She wiped her hands down her trouser legs. "Don't fob Ma off."
"Ask."
"Money at home. Is it tight?"
Beside her temple a yellow dot floated up, mung-bean size, not blinking. Under it, small print: arrears awareness: low.
The word "tight" got as far as his teeth.
"There's a plan now." He heard himself say it. "Installments. Sixty months at the longest, eight thousand up front, the payments step down after that. I can leave a copy of the paperwork; you look it over—no rush to sign."
He heard himself reciting. At the second line, he stopped.
He knew the six lines of the itemized statement by heart. He read none of the numbers aloud.
She wasn't looking at him. She was looking at the insole.
"Eight thousand." She said the number once, asked nothing after it. "Eight thousand—in the old days that would buy a proper coffin, lacquered."
The needle rode against the thimble, pushed through; the thread pulled straight.
"Your pa's burial clothes—he bought those himself," she said. "Up on top of the wardrobe, wrapped in blue cloth, never told a soul. I only found them cleaning house. That was your pa: everything arranged ahead while he lived, not one thing left to burden anyone."
She bit off a length of thread, joined it, twirled the knot.
"Ma was never a burden to anyone in this life, and she won't be one dead," she said. "That plan of yours—don't pin it on Ma."
The yellow dot blinked once, went out, lit again.
"The insoles are nearly done," she said. "Come get them next time. I'll set them on the counter; you take them yourself."
"Where you are—" he began, and stopped.
"Over here the state takes care of everything," she said. "Food, lodging, the doctor, the whole line. Only outside costs money."
She was straightening thread as she said it, the end wound around a finger, twice around, shaken out.
Top right: 12:47.
She got up, pulled a head out of the cabbage stack, broke two outer leaves into the basin, sat back down.
"You came on work time today, didn't you," she said. "What did you tell your boss?"
"Told him field work."
"Field work's good." She nodded. "Company car?"
"Subway."
"Subway's dear," she said. "A few yuan a trip. Do they give you a monthly pass? The factory used to reimburse ours—green, about so big, your photo glued on."
She measured a palm's width in the air.
"These insoles are yours, and it's time you changed the cotton shoes too," she said. "Yours went thin last winter. Ma kept count; by this winter you were due for a new pair. Don't deny it—you were hard on cotton shoes since you were small, two pairs a winter, the toes going through first."
"One pair's enough."
"Two pairs. Alternate them," she said. "They dry quicker."
She turned the calendar page herself, flipped it over, flipped it back—still the same page. The month box was blank; the day box was printed with flowers, red flowers.
"Twelfth month's full of things," she said. "In your grandma's day, once La month set in, needle and thread were put away—said a stitch might prick the God of Wealth in the eye. Ma doesn't hold with that. Ma's hands can't sit idle."
The stitches went on, row after row.
[04:56 remaining.]
"Your work unit," she said. "Do they hand out rice, flour, cooking oil before New Year?"
"They do."
"If they hand it out, take it," she said. "Only a fool turns down what's free. That boy of your Uncle Wang's—unit gave him oil, he said the jug was too heavy, wouldn't take it; his ma scolded him all winter."
"Does your unit settle its books at year end?"
"Settles."
"Good," she said. "Books settled, home for New Year."
She turned the insole over, held it against the light from the door to see how close the stitches ran.
"This one's done," she said. "The other one next time. You've been waiting on it, haven't you."
"No rush."
"That job of yours just won't let a person sit," she said. "Two visits now, and not a mouthful of water."
[01:00 remaining.]
The number went a shade whiter.
She pinned the needle to the insole, thread and all, stood, laid the insole flat on the stove top, smoothed it down, stepped back a pace.
"It's here," she said. "You come get it next time. Or have your brother take it—his feet are like yours, only thinner, he wears a forty-three."
He looked at the insole. Navy ground, white thread, quilted in an osmanthus pattern.
[00:30]
The number began to blink.
She stood at the edge of the stove top, hand clutching the front of her cardigan, saying nothing more. The top head of the cabbage stack eased itself outward a little and came to rest against the wall.
Black.
Dry mouth. He didn't stand; he held on to the chair back and counted to ten.
Wu Yan peeled the patches off one by one, handed him water, half a cup, warm. He drank a mouthful at a time; his throat clicked once.
The wall clock: ten thirty-one.
Wu Yan was coiling the wires beside him. "Two of you today, back to back. While you were in there, that old fellow never sat down once. Stood the whole time holding his bundle, looking at the wall."
[This deep visit has ended.] Access seat: DA-P03 Account: Zhou Sufen / AC-0417 / TL-0417 Connect 10:01 — disconnect 10:31 Session duration: 30:00 (billed at 30 minutes) Fees: 2.00 yuan/min × 30 = 60.00 yuan
[Settlement] Pre-authorization debit successful.
The phone buzzed once in the drawer. Bank debit 60.00; balance 3,192.62.
[Account outstanding balance] Arrears principal and late fees: 41,386.50 Disposal costs to date: 120.00 Total: 41,506.50 Pending merge: 1.20 (to merge on next billing date)
[274 days left on the schedule.] [Minutes generated] Two fields to complete.
For visit purpose achieved, he picked the third option: no clear expression of intent obtained. For persona cooperation he picked: cooperative.
Submit.
[Minutes no. DA-R-0417-002, retained for three years.] [Remaining quota this month: 2 visits.] [Next available access: 2023-12-09 10:31.]
The page stayed open, and the little box surfaced again: rate this access session (optional), five hollow stars. He clicked the X. Before it folded away it flickered, same as last time.
The page stayed open. At the bottom a window surfaced, white, a ring of yellow around its edge.
[Suspected arrears awareness detected] This session contains 2 trigger records (at 07:41 and 21:09 into the session). Under the Persona Continuity Maintenance Regulations, cognitive smoothing should be executed. Estimated adjustments this time: 1–3 entries. Submit?
[Submit] [Cancel]
He read both buttons.
He clicked Cancel.
Before the window folded away, a line of small print appeared at the bottom: this operation has been logged; it will be filed with the minutes and retained for three years.
Back at his desk, he opened the cold-backup pricing page first.
Restoration service quote: 8,600.00. Precondition: no outstanding balance on the account. Current outstanding balance: 41,506.50. On the page the two numbers sat one line apart, neither touching the other.
He looked for half a minute and closed it.
He set the two minutes side by side. DA-R-0417-001, session summary field: green beans, sugar color, shoe size. 002: cabbage, insoles, heating fee.
Then he opened the weekly report, deleted "client expresses understanding," and typed: second in-person communication completed; persona cooperative; mood stable. The word count read 189/200. He added six more words: family raises no objection for now.
Sent. Feng Tuo didn't reply.
He dug the sticky note out of his badge sleeve. All five lines there: 1800×0, Xiao Cheng 411 / Chuan Chuan 96, money 3, owe 0, K-11 09:52:11. He read it top to bottom, added nothing, folded it, slid it back.
The badge sleeve bulged; at the turnstile he'd have to press it down.