I looked at the bed. The sheets were sticky after not being washed for several days, and I could make out a vaguely human-shaped outline. I tried to imagine how Luhan could have carted away Granddad’s substantial physique, but all that came to mind was her look of determination. She’d been guided, summoned, and given permission to do this. Not only was her faith strong, she had courage to match. Nothing could stop her.

In another room somewhere else in the world, she would half-fill a basin with hot water every afternoon, dampen a towel, undo Granddad’s clothes, and wipe him down. Her careful hands moving through the steam. I felt a gush of warmth and shed a few tears. I would never see her again.

The hospital spent a lot of time investigating, and the police were involved too. The main question was how Granddad got transported out. There were only two exits, front and rear, and both were locked at nine. The sentry said he hadn’t seen anyone suspicious. There was one other route, via the morgue, but that was also locked. Everyone who held a key was questioned, with no results. Another theory was that he’d gone over the exterior wall, which was lower on the north side—but even if this had been an inside job, they’d still have needed a ladder, and there were no markings on the ground. Luhan was the prime suspect, of course, but the last official trace of her dated back to 1993, when she’d signed to acknowledge her husband Li Muyuan’s death certificate. The case was never solved, and Wang Luhan was never found.

So Granddad’s gone, and Granny died this summer. There’s nothing keeping me here any longer. You know the story of Exodus? I want to be Moses—part the Red Sea in two, and walk right out of here.

Li Jiaqi

All the booze is gone, but I’m not sleepy at all. Is it still snowing? The sky’s getting brighter, but the light looks different from normal dawn. Maybe it’s reflecting off the snow. This grayish light isn’t coming from the sun.

In the spring of 2000, I met Yin Zheng—he was the editor at a literary journal where I’d submitted some of my poems. I bought one of his collections, and dog-eared quite a few pages. When I saw he was having a book signing, I skipped my evening class to be there. It was raining, and there weren’t many people in the bookstore. Yin Zheng gave a short speech about his understanding of poetry and his worries about the state of the literary environment. He recalled the poetry societies and poetry journals of his college days as belonging to a golden age of literature. I hadn’t realized he’d been one of Dad’s classmates—he was five years younger than Dad, and looked much more boyish. I’d forgotten that the first intake after they brought back college entrance exams included a wide range of ages, because so many people had had their education interrupted. He didn’t mention Dad’s name, of course, but every word he uttered seemed to circle around Dad. Afterwards, I brought my book to the front for him to sign. He looked at me and asked which university I was in. I said I was still in high school. You must be very busy with homework, he said. Thank you for coming. He also asked if I wanted to join them for a drink at a nearby bar afterwards, and when I didn’t answer right away, he added, You can have juice.