She made that transpacific phone call to Glen’s office. This was the only piece of information she had about him. She got his voicemail, asking her to leave a message. She said, “Hi Glen . . .” but couldn’t go on. How many times could he have stopped loving her, found someone else, in those two years? She’d lost her rank, her urban residency permit, her husband, and her home, ending up as a temporary worker in a small private business. She’d planned to say, “Glen, I love you”—two years ago, the two of them hadn’t bothered and so had missed out on saying the words that would have clarified their status. But she couldn’t make herself do it—those words weren’t as full of meaning as “Hi.”

7

Three days after that, Glen showed up at her office in a tracksuit and a baseball cap. If he hadn’t been carrying a travel bag with the United Airlines logo, she would have thought he’d come straight from a long jog.

The secret talker said, Very good—a fairy tale ending.

Hongmei responded, If this were the ending, it really would be a very sweet fairy tale.

She shut down the computer and thought moodily, What is wrong with me? Treating this person like a confessor, or a shrink? Isn’t this in a way also masturbatory?

* * *

Nini called to her from the classroom door, “Hongmei, problem!” Her arms were waving wildly over her head, revealing freshly shaved armpits. “The secret talker wrote again last night!”

Hongmei told her to speak Chinese, and while she was at it to cut down on the histrionics.

Nini told her the secret talker was actually a twenty-year-old woman! The night before, she’d messaged Nini late into the night, saying she’d caused someone’s death. Her long fingers dug into Hongmei’s forearm. “I asked her whose death. She only explained herself in the small hours of morning.”