Running up there, she found the door to the rooftop locked. She quickly found the super in the basement. Very politely, he asked what business she had on the roof. She said to look at the scenery. He said that wouldn’t do; he wouldn’t be able to explain that to the residents’ board. She said she wasn’t going to commit suicide, and he chuckled and said, “Who could possibly know that?” She said, “If you’re worried, come up with me.” His eyebrows lifted, to indicate that her invitation was charming and that he was receptive. Right away, it reverted to the sort of smile a fellow airline passenger shoots you to say they’re done being social, and he said he didn’t want to go look at the scenery.

Changing the subject, he thanked her for the books she’d donated to the communal laundry room—there was a shabby bookshelf there, and anyone was free to leave old books for others to read while waiting. People often took them home, replacing them with other books of their own, a virtuous circle. Hongmei asked how he knew she’d donated the books. He said because she’d donated so many books. She said they didn’t have her name in them. He said, “Do they need to?” His eyes suddenly turned mysterious. Black eyes. Black hair. Five foot nine or so.

Hongmei thought she knew who the secret talker was. Her apartment building’s super was as described in the earlier messages, and he knew the background, financial situation, and emotional state of every household.

The next day at noon, Hongmei saw the super walk across the lawn, sandwich in hand. She was seated on her balcony, wearing sunglasses. The super’s ponytail blew in the wind, making him look for a moment like a melancholy drifter. Look at that—I can fix you in my sights too. The slight tilt of the balcony’s sunshade made her position particularly ideal. See, I can lurk in the shadows too, leaving you in the light. The super sat down on a bench stippled with pigeon shit. It seemed he wanted to eat his lunch within Hongmei’s line of sight. The two of them were now in the most clichéd scene of any thriller.

She casually swung her leg up, one foot resting on the other knee. He hadn’t unwrapped his sandwich. From sixteen floors up, he looked expectant. He was waiting for someone, constantly glancing at his watch. She looked at hers too: 12:59. Drug dealers usually showed up punctually, and his face was a little like an addict’s.