Mei was right. It was no use bothering the police; in fact, it seemed far worse to have bothered the police. Inevitably I felt myself being smeared with a layer of gutter oil, and defenselessly ravaged by a passing garish car that deliberately made a splash from a stinky puddle.
Dumb as we were struck, Mei and I returned to Ru, who said that the dinner was getting cold and Guo running out of patience.
Facing the sight of a gargantuan steel basin of the Fish Filet in Chili Oil, I apologized absently. The basin was surrounded by Guo, his aunt Nan, an Afrohaired girl and a strange older woman, who had nearly fi nished eating with a pile of fi sh bones fl agging before Mei and Ru joined. The sullenness of space above them was condensing, and an empty chair whimpering. I couldn’t sit down or stand still but move outside. Paced and paced, I started making some phone calls. It was that simple stubbornness that wasn’t simple. Overhearing what fun I had spoiled and hearing the urgency in Guo’s voice, I pulled myself to the empty chair.
