She was sitting at the kitchen table, checking through release forms for her private clients, tabulating her hours for the city, preparing paperwork from a printed list of names for a tai chi class that would begin in December, after the present one finished. The maximum number she accepted for tai chi at any time was sixteen, and the city required that the planning be done well ahead so space could be booked in advance.

Her mother had once looked over Chiyo’s shoulder when her papers were laid out over the table, drawing her finger down the enrolment list and commenting on various names—everyone unknown to her.

“You could be sued,” she’d warned. “People will sue over anything.”

“You’ve been watching too much television,” Chiyo told her. “But don’t worry. My students are aware of the risks. Private clients have to sign a waiver. Any classes sponsored by the city are covered by insurance.” Not to mention, she was thinking, the extent of her own preparation: the certification required, the hours she put in to stay current every year, the updating of skills—first aid, CPR/AED. Did her mother think she wasn’t qualified?

She had wondered, at the time, why her mother spoke in the manner of someone giving orders. Orders, demands, complaints, needling behaviour. That was the way she talked to her daughter—but never to her own friends. Chiyo tried to remember if this was true. She had been so accustomed to hearing her mother address her a certain way, she was surprised at the momentary insight. Would her mother have been aware of the differences in the way she spoke? Would she have understood that an alternative existed? Probably not. Insight had not been her mother’s strong suit. She didn’t sit around contemplating the possibility of change.

She counted on me to comply, Chiyo told herself. She dumped her mother–daughter expectations on me when I was young—really young. I learned to be compliant before I knew what the word meant. Maybe my own insight has been compromised. What I don’t want to be is compliant.

She stood up from the table, and as she rose, she recognized a man’s name at the bottom of a sign-up sheet she’d posted in the city gym to advertise the upcoming class. She would add these extra names to her master list, which meant the class was now full. The name she recognized had been scrawled in red ink, hurriedly, an afterthought: E.L. Hopps. How could she forget? Hopps—who insisted on being called just that—was a man in his late thirties who had once engaged Chiyo as his personal trainer. His first name was Eldon, he had told her, but he didn’t like the name, so he answered to Hopps. He insisted on exercising to music—had to be Miley Cyrus—but couldn’t follow a beat. Chiyo worked with him for months and finally gave up. She couldn’t prevent herself from assigning silent descriptions to her client: manic, frenzied, frenetic.

But Hopps’s name suited him. He had ruddy red cheeks and orange hair that stuck straight up. A huge forelock fell over one eye whenever he hopped up and down. It was unfortunate that he was oblivious to instruction as well as to rhythm. Chiyo had always expected him to topple over, but that hadn’t happened. Now, several years later, his name was on the sign-up sheet for tai chi. How would someone that frantic be able to engage in a meditative exercise? She would have to see.