i. wind on water, july 8th:
Mei-Ying’s forearms rest on the sides of the sink, splotched blue like the summer sky. He’s cleaning up dinner—or is supposed to be, anyway. The voices from the radio on the wooden fold-out table leak into the kitchen. Mei-Ying listens with one ear. It’s the same as always, the singular frequency available in the concrete box that is the apartment’s fourteenth floor. Tonight: scattered news about Article 27 covered with a curtain of radio static, and 危險遊戲. His mother used to play that song. When they stood next to each other on the metro he could hear it pouring out of her headphones that never fit quite right.
