Digging in my jeans pocket, I fished out two yuan coins and tossed them in the bowl. The monk handed me three incense sticks without a word. I took the incense and jostled my way to the closest brass urn in the courtyard. It rested on a pedestal, its domed top towering over me. A small fire shimmered like a mirage at its center, and I lit the incense sticks, breathing in the sandalwood smoke before closing my eyes. I clasped my hands together, bowing.

It took a moment before I could remember my mother’s features. My mind then leaped to Arun, clutching Dr. Nataraj’s slack body, his face twisted as if in physical pain. At thirteen, I had been too young to understand the injustice of my mother’s death. I only knew that we didn’t have money, which meant we couldn’t get her the help that she needed. Now, after almost five years living on the streets on my own, I understood. I saw the city I loved teetering on the edge of ruin, on the verge of taking its people with her. Only the yous remained untouched in their wealth, impervious. Now Arun’s mom was gone—murdered—and I felt again that anguish. I bowed once more, heart heavy, before opening my eyes and planting the three incense sticks in the urn. There would be no grave sweeping for my friends and me today.

I arrived fifteen minutes late to Lingyi’s apartment, and everyone was already there, making the space look even smaller than usual. Lingyi sat at her workstation, while Arun slouched on the white sofa, dark circles marking the curves beneath his eyes. Iris was swinging from one handgrip to the other on the target wall, not using her legs at all. She was dressed in cargo pants and a T-shirt, a knit cap pulled over her short hair—all in black.