When they’d moved to China, David had promised they’d take a trip to Shanghai to hear the monks singing sacred mantras before the golden statues of Buddha. They’d sit by the Bodhi tree, hold each other’s hands, and meditate as they’d done back in Bloomington’s Zen center, where they’d met, both hoping to fill the darkness of their histories with light. David had said he knew a company that promised quick riches programming holographic apps. The website advertised a beautiful apartment, lush markets, and a crowd of youthful entrepreneurs beneath flame-lit rooftop parties. Everything would be taken care of in Beijing. Most important, they’d be far from their families.

But their building’s cracked pool and algae-covered water told a different story, as did the Silk Market, where dwindling tour groups bought imitation video watches and chopsticks lacquered with dragons. The holographic marketplace had moved on, and David and Gabriel were tech refugees abandoned amid failing startups and the fizzling promise of success. Nothing in China was free, especially not the patching. But it was rumored that somewhere in Nigeria, where the air was still breathable, people stood on the tops of skyscrapers, sipping expensive drinks as DJs spun records until dawn, and Gabriel wondered: Had they chosen Africa instead, would their love have survived? Perhaps they could’ve found their breath together. Maybe David would still be alive.

“You need to patch your family,” David told him. It was early evening, the six o’clock haze of Beijing heavy in the apartment with a miniature ecosystem of beige and brown strati. They were lying in bed, breathing slowly without their tanks. Gabriel’s head hurt from the previous night’s partying, and whenever he ran his thoughts over the memories of their fight, he could feel the rough edges.

“I’m not patching my parents.”

“Why the fuck not? I’ve been happy since I did it.”

Gabriel wasn’t sure this was true. David had been filling in too much, his mind becoming a patchwork of threadbare synapses that no longer held the memory of their first kiss. And sure, David’s parents were worthy of patching—a father who’d regularly left him bloodied, and a mother who’d prayed over him afterward—but by filling those awful memories, David had removed their history.

“Don’t you miss our memories?” Gabriel asked.

“What are you worried about? I’ve got you right here, we can make new memories,” David said. Gabriel fidgeted with the fabric of the bedsheets, and David reached down to take his hand. “What is it?”

“You used to know what it was like to lose your family. We talked about your dad—”

“Stop,” David said. “I patched him for a reason.”

“Well, maybe you don’t need to process anymore, but I do. Can’t you remember anything about Bloomington? How you held me when I cried?”