Turning on the computer, a glass of wine in hand, she prepared to have a proper chat with the secret talker.

She told her the story of the girl who’d destroyed her father. Perhaps the secret talker was familiar with this tale? But by the end of the tale, Hongmei’s tears were flowing down her cheeks. After leaving his suicide note, the father had driven into the New Mexico desert and overdosed on sleeping pills. He hadn’t wanted his daughter to see his corpse.

The next day, the secret talker still hadn’t replied. Glen was bustling in and out, posting bail for students from his department who’d been arrested. Several others wanted to enlist, and he was talking to the university to guarantee their readmission. Hongmei found this Glen, with three days’ worth of stubble on his face, much more alluring, as if she were having a brand-new crush on him.

Day three—still no response from the secret talker.

Hongmei sat before the computer, her mood gray.

Maybe telling her over and over that she liked men had led to this abandonment. Or maybe she’d thought that Hongmei and Nini were in cahoots to play a trick on her. Then it was seven days without a message. Hongmei stared at the blank screen and felt herself drawn into the twists and turns of this mazelike secret talker. Her desk was a jumble—two mugs, the coffee in them solidified; a sandwich on the computer, one bite taken out of it, the protruding ham dried out to the deep red of an old wound. Behind her, the study was a wasteland too, six or seven books lying open beneath a layer of dust. Her mirror was covered in little notes, reminding her to take back her library books, to return Professor So-and-So’s call, to water the plants. The one hanging from the window hadn’t died of thirst yet but seemed to thrive in its unkempt state, even as a spider spun a web from it up to the ceiling.

The email finally came on the eighth day, resolutely refusing to mention Hongmei’s last message about the girl who had ruined her father. She said that when Hongmei had walked down the long supermarket aisle, she almost hadn’t noticed her. Dressed in white shorts and a red tank top, Hongmei had looked tall and limber, her every movement full of life. She had looked like an officer from the People’s Liberation Army, someone you’d be careful not to provoke. The secret talker had looked at this former lieutenant’s profile for a couple of minutes, trying to adjust her mystical, wafting image.

Compared to your husband, you’re much more vigorous. Your hairstyle was surprising too—you’re a woman of many transformations.