I turned and walked away. He didn’t want my help. And what could I do for him in the end anyway but buy him a hot tea? He needed the hospital and medicine, just like my mother had. I swallowed the sourness at the back of my throat, my grief suddenly as sharp as a fresh cut wound. There was nothing more I could offer—I didn’t have anything myself.

Another limousine zoomed by, this one overhead, followed by three muscular mei boys on airpeds—bodyguards or boy toys, most likely both. At least they weren’t adding to the rush-hour madness below.

“Truth is, reality always crushes your ideals,” the guy shouted at my back. “Just you wait and see.”

•  •  •

The clerk in the lobby of the run-down karaoke joint didn’t look up when I strolled in. The place must have been built in the ’90s, when the popularity of karaoke was at its peak, and appeared as old and tired as the outdated machines they still used. A dim chandelier barely lit the dark foyer; the old carpet reeked of grease and must.

“I’m meeting some friends,” I said.

The clerk flicked his cigarette butt into an ashtray. “Tall Filipino guy?” he said, still not bothering to glance up. “Hot chick in a fluffy skirt?”

I nodded and wondered how he had guessed, then realized there probably weren’t more than two rooms rented out in the entire pathetic place.

“Upstairs,” the clerk said. “Suite two-oh-three.” He lit another cigarette, breathing deep, then coughed as he blew the smoke out, eyes glued to an old box television placed on the counter in front of him. The TV was the kind where you had to twist a knob to change the channel—it’d be an antique if it weren’t such crap. That’s what most meis were left with these days: crap.

Taking the creaky stairs two steps at a time, I found the dark brown door with faded 203 brass numbers tacked on and the muffled tones of a Jay Chou ballad coming from beyond it. Knocking once, I twisted the sticky knob and pushed the door open before I got a response. Four pairs of sharp eyes met mine; I was one of the last to show as usual.

Dr. Nataraj sat in the middle of a worn black sofa, its fake leather hiding decades’ worth of stains. Arun was to her left, his usual bright orange spiked hair pulled conservatively back in a ponytail. Lingyi sat on Dr. Nataraj’s right, wearing a bright green tee and full white miniskirt plastered with bright flowers—tulips. Victor was slumped in a red velvet armchair beside Lingyi, his long legs sprawled in front of him, lazy as a cat. And just as cool. “Nice of you to join us, Zhou,” he drawled.