Shut up！I yell.I bury my head in the crook of my arm and cover my ears.
I told you，don’t make trouble.My father wipes a trickle of beer from the corner of his mouth.His breath is hot and foul.His arm is around my sister，whose blue eyes glisten with tears.My mother is to the side，crying.
Shut up！I scream.
You’re eighteen now.Get the hell out of my house.Get a job，or go to your goddamn university，but I don’t have to let you live under my roof anymore，my father roared，throwing the suitcase at my feet.My sister hides herself in the kitchen，tears running down her face as she looks at me.My mother is holding a pot；her face is expressionless.
Shut up！I scream hysterically.
I don’t know how much time passed.You can’t tell time accurately in the dark.It might have been a nightmare，or maybe I’d never fallen asleep in the first place.I stand up slowly，letting the wall take some of my weight.I’ve been curled up too long；every joint cries out in protest.All I want to do is go back to my little apartment，down a big glass of whiskey，no ice，and turn on the TV.Forget my absurd dream from last night.Forget the lingering sensation on my palm.Forget that there ever was such a thing as the ridiculously named finger-talking gathering.
I stride forward.My left foot strikes something.It rolls，then glows to life，a spot of white light illuminating the narrow space.It was the cell phone I lost at the door last night，my ridiculed，one-of-a-kind old fashioned smartphone.
It wasn’t a dream.Strength surges into me instantly.I pick up the phone；the battery is almost depleted，but it’s enough to let me properly examine the wall in front of me.Yes.This portion of the wall is brand-new，troweled together in a hurry with fast-setting concrete.Where the wall meets the floor，I see a wooden doorframe buried in the depths of the crack.The door is there，just hidden by people trying to keep it secret.
I knock on the wall and find that the cement is too thick for me to break through.The people in black hoodies weren’t some hallucination.They’d simply changed their meeting place and forgot to tell me.I comfort myself with that.
I wait there until two in the morning，but no one comes.I climb back up the stairs，walk to the subway station two kilometers away，and hail a taxi back to my apartment from there.Step by step，I climb up the squeaking stairs.My thoughts are in a muddle，but I still need to work Wednesday morning.As I open the door to my apartment，I plan to drink a glass，take a shower，and get some proper sleep.
I freeze at the doorway.Someone in a black hoodie is sitting on my couch.
8
I pick up the e-seal and stamp the social welfare petition on my display：a newly immigrated family with six children.The green indicator light on the e-seal turns red，telling me that I’ve used up today’s approval quota.I relax into my chair and work the cramp out of my wrist.There’s still half an hour until my shift ends.
The pretty blonde girl who shares my cubicle stands up to invites everyone to her birthday party.“We’d...welcome you too，if you have the time，”she says belatedly to me，out of what I know is forced courtesy.
“Sorry，I have an important date the next day.But happy birthday！”I reply.She visibly gives a sigh of relief and puts her hand to her chest.“Thanks.That’s a pity.I hope the date goes well.”
To a girl her age，I’m from another generation，and I understand an out-of-place old man at a party can be a disaster.But the date wasn’t an empty excuse.I can still feel her message on my right palm：Tomorrow in the city square at 6 AM.
I don’t know how she found me，how she got in my apartment，or how long she waited there.After a moment of surprise，I walked over and took her hand.The neon lights of the strip club flashed through the window，splashing her black hoodie with radiant colors.I still couldn’t see her face properly.“Sorry，we changed the meeting place.We couldn’t contact you in time，”she wrote.
“Did I cause trouble for you？”I ask.
“No.The situation’s complicated.Only a few core members went to the finger-talking gathering just now.We’ve had some internal disagreements.”At the end of the sentence，her finger tapped out a few hesitant ellipses.
“About what？”
“About whether to do something stupid.”She drew two wavy lines under“stupid.”
“I don’t understand，”I write honestly.
“If you’re willing to listen，I can tell you how the finger-talking gathering came to be，how we’re organized，the struggles between the factions，and our ultimate goal.”She wrote it in one long sentence.
“I don’t want to know，”I reply.“I don’t want to turn these interesting conversations into politics.”
“You don’t understand.”She draws a greater than sign，a sigh.I’m realizing that she expresses even the most basic emotions through writing.“You must have noticed how the zhaiyuedu.com，TV，books have lost any semblance of intelligence.”
“Yes！”I feel a rush of excitement.“I don’t know why，but every topic worth arguing over has disappeared.All that’s left is pointless bullshit.I’ve tried tossing provocative topics out in discussion more than once，but no one would reply.Everyone’s more interested in sashimi and earthworms.I noticed it years ago，but no one believed me.The doctor gave me pills to get rid of the hallucination.But I know this isn’t a hallucination！”
“It’s not just these.Conversations with friends and the things you see on the street are becoming as bland as the zhaiyuedu.com and the media.”
“How do you know？”I nearly stood.
“It’s all a conspiracy.”She pressed hard writing this，hard enough to hurt.
“A conspiracy？Like the moon landing thing？”
“Like Watergate.”Her writing grew agitated，harder to decipher.
“I think you need to tell me everything.”
“Then we’ll start with politics.”
“Hold on...when’s the next gathering？Can I join？”
“This is what we’re arguing about.Those in support of action think we should hold our next gathering in a public place，like the city square.We shouldn’t keep running and hiding.We should show what we believe in，no compromises”she tells me.
“I’m guessing that the police don’t like you guys very much.”I once again recalled the first time I saw her，chased by two panting cops.
“They don’t have anything on the organization as a whole.It’s just some individual members who have criminal records，especially the activists，”she answers frankly.
“You have a criminal record？”I ask，curious.
“It’s a long story.”She was unwilling to say anything more.
I work up my courage and ask the question at last.“What’s your name？”
Her finger stilled.I tried to scrutinize her face under the hood，but the hood concealed her face entirely.It even hid any sex characteristics.I suddenly realized that my only evidence that she was female was her slender fingers.She could just as easily be a young man，I thought，though my heart utterly rejected the idea.I wanted her to be a woman like my big sister，flaxen-haired and soft-voiced and a little mischievous，freckles scattered over the bridge of her nose.The sort of woman I’d been seeking all my life.
“You’ll know it in time，”she said eventually，avoiding my question.
“Actually，I’m more curious about—”the exquisite sensation of my left finger on her right palm was interrupted by the sudden howl of a police siren approaching rapidly.She straightened，alert，and pulled her hood lower.“I’m leaving now，”she wrote rapidly.“If you want，be there tomorrow in the city square at 6 AM.Remember，this is your choice.This is your chance to change the world，or more likely，regret it to the end of your days.Either way，don’t blame anyone else，especially not me，for your own decision.And I might as well add，I think bald men are sexier.”
She squeezed my right hand with her delicate but strong fingers，got off the sofa，and vaulted out of the living room window.I hurried over to look down.She’d already climbed down nimbly from the fire escape and disappeared around the corner.I touched my balding head，somewhat dazed.
9
For a variety of reasons，I sank into a deep depression the year I was thirty-seven.The landlady persuaded me to go to her shrink，threatening that if I didn’t get treatment，she’d kick my ass out of the apartment.I knew that she just didn’t want me to overdose and leave my corpse in one of her rooms，but I’m grateful to her all the same after the fact.
The man was a Swede with a beard like Freud’s.“I’m not a psychologist，”he said，once we’d talked some.“I’m a psychiatrist.We don’t consult here.We fix problems.You’ll need to take medications if you don’t want to dream every night of your sister’s grave.”
“I’m not afraid of pills，doctor，”I reply.“As long as the insurance covers it.I’m not afraid of dreaming of the sister I love，either，even if she crawls out of the grave every time.I’m afraid of what’s happening around me.Do you feel it，doctor？Tick-tock，tick-tock，like the second hand on a clock.Here，there，endlessly.”
The psychiatrist leans over，full of interest.“Tell me what you feel.”
“Something’s dying，”I say in a low voice，glancing around me.“Can’t you smell it rotting？The commentary on the news，the newspaper columnists，the online forums，the spirit of freedom is dying.It’s dying en masse like mosquitoes sprayed with DDT.”
