Cheng Gong

Remember when we were kids, and the area around Southern Courtyard always seemed so sad and empty? The university’s at the eastern edge of the city—beyond this there’s only the power plant, and then wheat fields and villages. The villagers sold freshly picked apples and peanuts at the university gates. One always had a little bag of newly laid free-range eggs—Dabin’s dad worked at the cafeteria, and this guy would trade him the eggs for a few buckets of slops. Back then, there weren’t any high-rise buildings around here, let alone the electronics and technology industrial park. Just the two chimneys sticking up from the power plant, which seemed closer then because there were no buildings in the way. On clear days, smoke rose from them at a diagonal. Through sandstorms, rain, or snow, they looked terrifying, like alien legs striding towards us, like the world was ending.

This used to be one big campus, not different zones like now. Family quarters were across from the university. The grown-ups called that Southern Courtyard, so I did too. My granny and your grandpa both lived here, but at opposite ends. In the middle were the cafeteria and the bike shelter, and a tiny wooded area. We met there every morning, and headed to school together. The elementary school was in the south-west corner of Southern Courtyard, so we had the shortest commute of any student.

Dad sent me to Southern Courtyard when I was six, and your mom brought you here when you were eight. You weren’t crazy about that—when you first got here, you spent all your time sulking. You didn’t want to know where the post office or the bookstore were, and you refused to chat with the clerk at the convenience store, not even to tell her your name. When our class went on a spring outing, you hid behind a rock rather than being in the group photo. You told us you were only here temporarily, and your dad would come to take you away again soon. Whenever I looked at you, I saw myself two years earlier. Once again, I started fantasizing that I would be leaving any day now. Then three years later, you really did go, and I stayed another twenty-four years. One time, when Dabin said I’d grown up in Southern Courtyard like him, I had to correct him: I moved here aged six. He pouted and said I was splitting hairs. But no, that was an important distinction. I might not remember much of my life before turning six, but I want to keep it separate in my mind. I don’t think I ever told you this. For some reason, I never told you the most important things.