The old man had cried. And Vivienne, she’d looked…transported. How many other people had felt whatever she’d felt? And how many had just felt odd, or nothing at all? My nausea worsened, and I squeezed the little box. I wanted a gentle hand on my head and a voice telling me everything was okay, that this feeling would pass. Vivienne’s head was turned to the window. A dark, subdued mass of hair, a swan neck. She was contemplating the trees perhaps, or the sky losing its light. I looked at the back of Keung’s head. It was grey, silent. Are we there yet? I wanted to speak, to hear my voice, any voice. But I also had a strange conviction that the silence was holding us all together.

I turned the silver box over in my hand, feeling a little bad for the crabs. They would never find their way onto a shirt cuff. Best to stay inside. I wondered what my father would be like at the hospital this time, if he’d be a little bit more cooperative. When I’d gone there to see him for the first ulcer, I’d heard yelling as soon as I’d stepped out of the elevator. A pair of young nurses were gossiping loudly at the desk about how impossible the patient was being, demanding to be let out early, absolutely had to be in New York by Tuesday. Apparently, though, Dr. Chan was having none of it. I walked down the hall to my father’s room and waited outside for a few minutes, listening to him and the doctor have it out. It sounded like fun. Eventually Dr. Chan came out—a broad, pinkish man—looking harassed but somewhat pleased with himself.