It turned out my father never knew Meng’s address. He had met her here, at this convenience store. She was still very mobile, he told me, and refused when he offered to buy her a treat from the store—a tea egg, a lunch box, a hot drink. She drank from her own thermos. Something medicinal, he guessed, crinkling his nose as he said it. They had gone to a small park nearby. They used to sit there and chat. It had been a while since he last saw her.

“The older generation has more of a community here than they do in the States,” he said. “I used to ask to meet up, and half the time she would say she was too busy.”

He took me to his favorite restaurant for dinner, right down the street from his apartment, small and homey. He ordered lion’s head meatballs. They were huge and perfectly round, thick droplets of soy sauce gathered on bok choy.

“I think grandmother’s are better,” I said. The meatballs were awfully good, just not the same.

“I agree,” my father said, and I wondered if he thought of home more than he let on.

On day two, he had to go into the office. Louise sent me Meng’s contact information.

she’ll understand you, Louise wrote. but you probably won’t understand her

Louise was already in Shanghai. I told her I wanted to see my family before meeting up. I had to download China-specific apps in order to message and otherwise get around. I am not nearly as familiar with the data surveillance here as I am with America’s, and in a way, it is a relief. I am sure it is happening, likely on a scale larger than I can imagine. But I am also leaving soon, merely a ghost passing through, an ephemeral packet of data.

Finally, I called Meng.

I stammered my way through it, made sure to pronounce grandmother’s name slowly and carefully, speaking loudly in case she was hard of hearing like grandmother.

Meng’s voice is higher. It’s fast and clipped, and Louise was completely right—I could hardly understand her rapid Shanghainese. Even when she slowed down, even when she attempted Mandarin.

“I’m sorry.” I was sweating, wishing I had asked my father to call instead. It felt like my responsibility. And I felt connected to her, through her Reforged words. It was only these real-life words that were hindering us.

She asked a question. I tried to say again that I’d like to meet her, maybe at the convenience store where the pencil company used to be. She repeated the same question, this time faster, repeated it again before I even had the chance to answer. Then she hung up.