Once the door shut, three sounds were left in the machine room: the fans, Wu Yan's keyboard, and the clock on the little screen at the cabin wall.
The sound field didn't carry out here. Whatever was said in there, not one word of it crossed the glass. Liang Cheng stood at the glass, half a step from the red cover, his hand resting on its rim. Inside, Liang Chuan sat on the bed edge, a hand's width from her, the plastic bag at his feet.
She spoke first.
Liang Cheng could see her mouth moving. Not fast; one sentence at a time, and wherever the words got to, her hand traced to match. Liang Chuan sat straight, both hands clasped on his knees—the same posture as hers, exactly, and watching them Liang Cheng couldn't have said who had set it first.
The clock passed 00:40.
Liang Chuan leaned down and drew the yogurt cup out of the bag. The straw was in it—Niuniu's work, stuck in crooked. He held it out toward her. She raised her hand to take it; the hand arrived, stopped, and both hands came together, hovered around the cup—a light, guarding pass—then drew back to her knees. She waved him off; the words on her lips were short. Liang Cheng knew the shape of those two words: leave it there.
Liang Chuan set the cup on the bed edge, on her side. She looked down at it and didn't touch it again.
The clock passed 01:20.
She started on the long part. The long sentences ran mouth-to-mouth without breaking, stretch after stretch. Midway she stopped once, reached up and tucked the hair back behind her ear—the black pin with the missing bead was still there; through three meters of glass Liang Cheng could see the arc of it going through. Tucked, she went on. Liang Chuan listened with his head down, his shoulders coming down bit by bit, until at the end the whole of him had slumped into the way their father used to sit on a bench.
The long stretch done, she stood. She shook the quilt out, drew it over from the head of the bed, laid it across Liang Chuan's legs. It came down over him halfway; Liang Chuan raised a hand and held the quilt's corner and didn't push it off. She tucked it around him where it lay; done tucking, she sat back. That quilt Liang Cheng knew—"the one Ma carded for you"; one carding holds ten years. Now it lay over his brother's legs, down past the knees by a hand's length.
Liang Cheng stood outside the glass. He couldn't see what he looked like himself, standing. He only knew his hand had never left the red cover.
The clock passed 02:10.
Liang Chuan's turn. He started too fast—his mouth opened a few times with nothing out. No sound came through, but Liang Cheng could tell: even in there, those first ones came out mute. Then his mouth got quick, run after run, his hands closing and opening on his knees. She listened, hands clasped, head tilted toward him. At that tilt something sank in Liang Cheng's chest—she tilted the same way into the phone; a whole life of giving the ear over to whoever was speaking.
Midway through, Liang Chuan dug out his phone, unlocked it, held it over for her to see. She leaned in close, very close, looked a while, and her mouth rounded—a short shape, an oh. She raised her hand, fingers hanging an inch above the screen, and passed them through the air, light, top to bottom, touching nothing. Done, she lifted her head and said something—pointed at the phone, then at the door. Liang Chuan nodded and put the phone away.
Liang Chuan came to a sentence and stopped. He looked at her. She didn't answer; she nodded. Nodded twice.
The clock passed 03:00.
She tilted her head toward the door—a movement Liang Cheng knew; she'd spent a lifetime waiting at doors, the body moving before the mind. Tilted; nothing stirred; she turned back. Turned back, she said a few short ones—three or four, each slower than the last. Liang Chuan's hands came down off his knees and hung.
The clock passed 03:50.
Liang Chuan had gone quiet. Head down, thumbs pressed together. She was still talking, unhurried, like taking things out of a box one at a time.
Midway she got up, went to the door, took the navy cardigan down. She didn't put it on; she held it to her chest, came back, sat. The sleeves were rolled twice; she held it, one hand resting on the other sleeve. The last few sentences she finished holding that cardigan.
At one sentence, Liang Chuan's back jerked into a bow. Just once. Then he lifted his head and listened.
Liang Cheng couldn't make out the shapes of her last few sentences. It wasn't the glass. Her mouth was moving slowly now, word by word, as if she were saying them against something.
The clock jumped past 04:00.
Past 04:30.
Liang Chuan stayed sitting. He didn't look at the clock; he didn't leave. She wasn't talking either—just sat there keeping him company, hands clasped on her knees. Outside the glass, Liang Cheng watched the two numbers crawl forward. 04:40. 04:50. He counted the seconds. Five minutes a week, buys off seven days; Niuniu's two calls had been 05:17. This call of Liang Chuan's, the system wouldn't count this week—the quota was spent. In the system these five minutes were only five minutes, one twenty a minute, offsetting nothing.
04:57. 04:58. 04:59.
05:00.
Liang Chuan didn't move.
05:01, 05:02, 05:03.
Liang Cheng kept his eyes on the notifications column on his phone. Empty. Nothing on the staff client, nothing on the family client. By the rule, if these five minutes counted, a banner should have come through now—"weekly deferral target met." Nothing. This time the system hadn't even sent a popup. It didn't count them and it didn't refuse them; it simply behaved as though these five minutes had never happened.
05:04.
At that number Liang Chuan stood. He stood slowly, braced a hand on his knee. Liang Cheng knew that number—December 23, the call that ran 05:04 answer time. His own number; he'd kept it himself.
She stood too. Liang Chuan walked to the door, got two steps and looked back. She followed him to the inside of the door and stopped—like every other one, that door wasn't one her leg could get through. She stood by the door frame, raised a hand and waved him off, mouth moving: two words.
Liang Cheng knew those two words. She had said them to him all his life: go, be busy.
Liang Chuan pulled the door open and came out. A thread of cold air came out with him. The indicator light on the door went dark; the light in that little room stayed on. She stood a moment, walked back to the bed edge, sat, and moved the yogurt cup a little farther in, over to where it couldn't be knocked off.
The door shut, the sound field cut, the clock stopped.
Liang Chuan came out with his face flat. Only the eyes were wrong—the rims red, red and dry. He carried the plastic bag; it was empty, the mouth of it twisted once.
Liang Cheng asked: "What did she say."
"Ma says go by the procedure." Liang Chuan said. "Don't be hard on yourself."
"That's all?"
"That's all, and it holds." Liang Chuan gave the bag another twist. "The rest was household talk. She said Niuniu's got a bold streak, takes after her great-grandfather. She said the quilt's due for carding—there's a cotton-carding shopfront down in the south of the city, she doesn't know if it's been torn down yet, told me to look when I pass. She said those night-shift jobs at your work grind a person down, told me to keep an eye on you. She said when you were small—"
He stopped.
Liang Cheng waited.
Liang Chuan didn't go on. He swallowed the sentence, swallowed it visibly; his throat moved once. Liang Cheng watched him swallow it. The machine-room fans layered and layered.
"Ge." Liang Chuan said. "Does she already know."
"Know what."
"Know this place is going." Liang Chuan said. "What she said to me matches what you heard the night before last. Clear as a mirror inside her—not one question asked, not one grievance aired. She tells you to go by the procedure because she's afraid you'll throw yourself into it. She tells me—"
He stopped there again. This stop was long. Liang Cheng waited it out. The little lights on the cabinets blinked one after another, green, steady, all blinking the same.
"She talked about the year you were eight."
"What did she say." Liang Cheng asked.
"She mentioned somebody." Liang Chuan said.
"Who."
Liang Chuan looked at his brother. Two, three seconds—and Liang Cheng knew that look. The night of the showdown, right before "the cheapest tier—she picked it herself," he had looked the same way.
"She talked about the year you were eight."
The year he was eight. Liang Cheng stood where he was. Thirty-nine point five, the middle of the night, the clinic door that wouldn't open; she wrapped him in the rain cape, got on that three-wheeler, and pedaled for the town. Seven li. On the way out he was burning too high to know anything; on the way back the sky was going gray, the rain cape soaked through with sweat, and she pedaled and turned to call his name—call once, get one answer; no answer and she stopped the bike and looked back. He lay in the cargo bed and watched her back, with the first gray on the horizon.
Afterward no one ever brought that night up again. He'd nearly lost count of which year it went by.
"What did she say." Liang Cheng heard himself ask.
"She said, the year you were eight, you burned until you were out of your head, and she pedaled you into town on the trike—" Liang Chuan stopped there. His voice was still flat, flat until the words "she said" carried a shake. He gathered himself again. "She said, the whole way she called to you, and only when you answered did she dare push the next stroke. She said she counted that night—seven li, and you answered her better than a hundred times. She said—"
Liang Chuan didn't say it.
This man's pinned post had stood two years without being taken down; caption: talked with Ma a while. Call length, twelve seconds. The people who opened it called him a good son, and he'd gone along. Five years he'd kept the act up on this one, until he nearly believed it himself.
He crouched down. Went down right there by the cabinets, back to the cabin, both hands over his face. No sound came out. The shoulders jerked and jerked, fast little movements, all of it shut inside that dark jacket, like a machine holding its fault inside.
Liang Cheng stood beside him. He didn't move, and he didn't crouch down. In his hand the unopened bottle of water stayed half-raised.
The sound of it only leaked out at the end. What leaked wasn't sobbing—one short nasal catch, like something had squeezed him. Liang Chuan dragged his sleeve sideways across his face, stood, back still turned.
"Three hundred sixty-five days," he said, voice gone hoarse. "She waits a year. It's worth my twelve seconds."
He bent and picked up the empty bag, crushed it, stuffed it in his jacket pocket. Then he turned around and looked into the cabin through the glass. She sat on the bed edge, hands clasped on her knees, head tilted toward the door. The yogurt cup sat within her reach.
"Ge." Liang Chuan said.
"Mm."
"Sell the apartment. Take the loan. Pull the disc." he said. "Ma says go by the procedure. Then I'll go by the procedure with you, all the way."
Liang Cheng held the bottle of water out to him. Liang Chuan took it, twisted it open, drank half of it in one go. When it was gone he dragged the sleeve across his face once more, and when it came away the face had been put back in order—red only in a ring around the eyes.
The little screen on the cabin wall brought up the settlement page:
> Prototype session S-07 ended. > Render hold 00:31:00, billed 37.20 yuan; of which the call segment 00:05:04, billed as 6 minutes at 7.20 yuan, caller: Liang Chuan (second son). > The above is charged to AC-0417 accrued charges, to merge into the outstanding balance on the 2024-01-14 billing date. > Current outstanding balance: 41,507.70.
Thirty-seven twenty. Liang Chuan had seen the number too.
"Thirty-seven twenty." he said. "One look at Ma—thirty-seven twenty."
"A prototype." Liang Cheng said. "Not launched."
"Launch it and your company will collect." Liang Chuan said. He read the settlement page through again. "Whose account does this go on."
"Hers. Accrued charges—out on January 14; once it's out, it can be paid on the family client."
"When it's out, I pay it." Liang Chuan said. "Thirty-seven twenty. I pay it."
He Yu came around from the back row of cabinets, tapped the panel at the cabin's side a few times, and the light inside went out. The room, the bed, the cardigan behind the door—layer by layer it all went dark, until what was left was three reflections in the glass. He Yu pasted a slip on the panel: S-07, suspended from use, product side. Pasted, he said, "Let's go—they're coming to service this floor this morning."
The elevator went up. Liang Chuan leaned against the wall, the half bottle of water clutched in his hand, and before the car reached 1 he dragged the sleeve across his face one more time. At 1 the doors opened; the lobby Christmas tree stood there, the lame bauble turned back away again.
Liang Chuan stopped in front of the tree. He looked at it two seconds, said nothing, went around it. The girl at reception was at her computer; she didn't look up.
"Do I come tomorrow morning." Liang Chuan asked.
"No need." Liang Cheng said. "Pulling the disc takes the account holder. I'm going with He Yu. You go to work."
"Then what do I do."
"You go by the procedure." Liang Cheng said. "Five minutes when five minutes are due. Next week's quota—still Niuniu's."
Liang Chuan nodded. He walked a few steps toward the subway, then turned back: "That cup of yogurt—she kept it."
He was gone before Liang Cheng could answer.
In the evening, Liang Cheng took the slip of paper out and read it through. Ten lines, from 1800×0 to Old Guan, 42 days. He added no eleventh line; he slid the slip back into the badge sleeve. The badge went back on the chair, facing the bed.
He sent Liang Chuan: Tomorrow morning I go pull the disc. Back in the afternoon.
The answer came fast: Mm.
Ten minutes later, another: Take it slow on the road.
He plugged the phone in, lay down, left the light on. There was nothing on the ceiling. He lay a while, and turned the light off.
Thursday, December 28.
Six twenty-seven; he was awake before the alarm. The rice was in the pot, soaked the night before. Bring it to a boil, turn it low, twenty minutes, kill the heat, let it sit. He drank half a bowl, shut the stove, and left the other half-pot sitting covered in the pot.
Before going out he stood a moment in front of the chair. The badge hung there, ten lines on the slip in the sleeve. He'd have no use for it today—pulling the disc is private business, visitor status; registration runs on the ID card. He gave it a look, left it where it was, and went out.
Eight fifty, He Yu's car stood at the curb. Dark coat, not the gray sweater. A document envelope lay on the back seat; a pair of sunglasses sat on the passenger seat.
Liang Cheng got in, buckled up, patted his inner jacket pocket. The ID was there, one stiff corner.
He Yu drew a page from inside his coat and handed it over: "Copy of the appointment slip. You hold it; when we arrive, follow this."
The paper was warm; the printer's heat hadn't left it. Liang Cheng folded the page, folded it down to the size of a note, slid it into the inner pocket with the ID.
"I printed the slip." He Yu started the car. "First line of the registration form—today it gets its timestamp."
The car merged into the morning rush. At the third light, the navigation spoke:
"One hundred three kilometers. Estimated one hour fifty minutes."
He Yu put on the sunglasses. Liang Cheng leaned back and watched out the window.
Out of the city the road jammed for a stretch. Sitting in it, He Yu spoke.
"That trip three years ago—we left town at this same hour." he said. "Same road."
"He rode with you?"
"He drove himself; I rode shotgun." He Yu said. "At the Changping exit he said stop. Pulled onto the shoulder and sat ten minutes with a cigarette he never got lit—too much wind. Then he said, Mr. He, turn us around; I've thought it through. I rode with him while he turned the car."
"That forty-three thousand of his."
"Went to zero last month." He Yu said. "The schedule zeroed it out; the debt didn't get paid. Zeroed out means—disposed of."
Liang Cheng didn't answer. The car moved a length and stopped again.
"Why are you still willing to run this trip." he asked.
"The last trip came up one step short." He Yu said. "I'm the kind who keeps accounts. That missing step—I'm making it up on this trip of yours."
The car went through the toll gate, the arm up, the arm down. Liang Cheng ran the day's procedure through once more: registration, verify, sign, take the cartridge, return. Five steps; not one to miss.
The disc was in Changping. The snapshot: March 14, five years ago, 09:52:11. Out of the vault, and the seven working days start to run.
The clock on the dashboard ticked over to 09:00.