Siew Li gaped at her. “Yes, I know who you are,” said Lina, reading her mind. “You think just because we never talked, I don’t know? People are always pointing out to me—that Form Two girl, Siew Li, very smart, top of every exam, but keeps to herself. And I thought, how come someone like that isn’t helping to make things happen? That’s the sort of person we need in the movement.”

Siew Li managed to nod without turning her head, but before she could say anything, a severed arm trailed its fingers along her shoulder, and cobweb strands wrapped themselves around her face. “Just think about it,” said Lina’s steady voice, and they were falling again, into velvety darkness that absorbed them without a sound.

•

For the first part of her life, Siew Li only knew progress. Admittedly, she was born during the war, which was a fairly low baseline—her earliest memories were of constant discomfort. Her mother didn’t like to talk about it afterwards, so she had to put the fragments together herself—a man, probably her father, running into the rubber plantation with her on his back when they heard the airplanes coming, only returning when the bombing stopped; the neighbours fighting over rations, hollow cheeks and the bow-legged walk of malnourishment creeping over everyone. She was four when the Occupation ended, so there was no context for any of these shards, just a sense that things had been terrible and then they got better, not only in concrete ways but also the sense of lightness, as if everyone had been holding their breath all this time and suddenly they had all the air they needed.

It took her a while to realise her father wasn’t coming back. He’d gone away with the Japanese one day, and even after everything was back to what she assumed was normal, he didn’t show up. Her mum just cried when she asked, and one time slapped her, though she was sorry afterwards. Anyway, Siew Li learnt not to ask.