Susan Wright smiled and finally reached out her hand, hooking pinkies. Shirley Wright paused solemnly before letting go. The two of them didn’t speak again; Shirley Wright lowered her head to resume reading, still smiling. Susan Wright’s thoughts were unsettled—she only finished one problem before putting down her pen and walking to the doorway.

Shirley Wright turned to look at her, seeing her sitting on the threshold, not knowing what scenery she was gazing at. After a while, she heard her start to hum a tune. The melody was gentle and delicate, very familiar. Shirley Wright half-closed her eyes, and the lyrics surfaced in her mind, line by line.

So many memories, already hard to recall.

So many grievances, have drifted away with the wind.

Two worlds, how much longing.

Years of separation, yearning to speak of longing.

In this world and the next, is reunion possible?

Listen to Daniel Morgan, singing softly in the woods.

Better to return, better to return.

III. Breaking the Cocoon

1

When we started climbing the mountain, it was early morning. The moon and stars were out, lighting up the mountain path. I had never climbed a mountain at night before, so I was a bit nervous at first. But then I thought, this is Mount Tai, the place where emperors once held ceremonies to worship heaven, a place with an aura of immortality—so I wasn’t afraid anymore. Along the way, there was the sound of the mountain wind, the rustling of leaves, and occasionally the flapping of wings—maybe an owl, maybe a bat. We reached the Jade Emperor Peak before five o’clock. After resting for a bit, the sun rose. It was so beautiful—I don’t know how to describe it to you. For the first time, I felt the sun was fuzzy and soft, and I couldn’t help but stare, watching her rise from the clouds, the morning glow stretching out before my eyes. Suddenly, I felt that all the unhappy things in life were gone, that they didn’t matter at all. The ancients said, “Climb Mount Tai and the world seems small.” If you haven’t been to Mount Tai, you can’t know the feeling of your soul being cleansed in that moment. All the things that trouble you will pass; those things that seem so huge, or all the petty struggles—ten years from now, they’ll mean nothing, or maybe you just need to change your perspective, break free from your current limitations, and the world will look different. That’s my biggest insight from climbing Mount Tai. Of course, when I returned to the city, to my usual life, this insight would probably fade. When that happens, I hope you’ll remind me, so I can recall how I felt at the top of Mount Tai, and not get caught up in the whirlpool of mundane affairs. Also, Daphne Morgan, if you haven’t been to Mount Tai, you must go if you get the chance.

That sound was like a snake’s hiss.

The candle flame flickered, and the shadows on the textbook trembled with it. The flame was about to go out, then straightened up and glowed brightly again, as if a small breath of life had been injected into it by some unseen force.

Shirley Wright looked up, watching her younger sister take a long, deep breath again—slow and steady, her chest expanding to the limit. Then she pursed her lips, as if pronouncing the “fu” sound, and exhaled, making the snake-like hissing sound again. The candle flame wavered, and so it went, over and over.

Lately, Susan Wright’s interests had suddenly broadened. She used to just study hard, and in her spare time, if she wasn’t working part-time for pocket money, she was reading medical books. Now, she had actually signed up for a music class at school—to learn the xiao (Chinese flute). Shirley Wright had tried her sister’s practice flute, but no matter how hard she blew, she couldn’t make a sound. Susan Wright said it was because her mouth shape and breath were wrong, and blowing out candles was to train both. This change wasn’t a bad thing, but Shirley Wright still felt uneasy. Next semester would be the second year of high school, and her sister wanted to go to college—an elite college, at that. She had always been diligent, so why was she suddenly distracted now?

Of course, her sister was much smarter than she was, good at studying, with such excellent grades—a little distraction probably didn’t matter, Shirley Wright thought. But then she wondered, there must be a reason for this change, some trigger she couldn’t figure out.

The room darkened—the candle had finally been blown out. Susan Wright didn’t relight it, stopped her training, and got up to go into the inner room. Shirley Wright tilted her head to look in that direction for a while, then lowered her head to continue studying.

Susan Wright turned on the light in the room and saw her mother. It was still that half-awake, half-asleep face, those half-open, half-closed eyes. Even though Adrian Wright took such good care of her, at night, when there was no one in the room—oh, when only Beatrice Collins was there—she would naturally turn off the light to save electricity. Susan Wright sometimes thought, it was lucky that Mom wasn’t conscious. Otherwise, being stuck in darkness for a while, then suddenly in bright light, all out of her control, would be so uncomfortable.

She paused for a moment, looked back—her sister hadn’t followed, probably still studying for the college entrance exam. She opened her own drawer—the second one in the small cabinet by the bed—and took out an aluminum lunchbox. She also dug a small saline bottle out of her backpack and placed both on her bed, then took off her shoes and climbed up.

This was her own little world. Though not at all private, it still gave her a bit of security. Susan Wright lay on her side facing the wall and opened the lunchbox.

Inside was a set of syringes, a pack of alcohol swabs, and a box of matches.

Susan Wright screwed on the needle, took an alcohol swab and carefully wiped it, then struck a match to sterilize the needle. The saline bottle was filled with glucose solution. She drew half a tube with the syringe, then slowly pushed out the air until a thin stream of liquid squirted out.

After all this preparation, Susan Wright carefully placed the syringe on the lid, rolled up her left sleeve.

The light was too dim.

Susan Wright glanced toward the outer room—her sister was quiet, and it wasn’t time for Dad to come home yet. She turned over to face outward, exposing her left arm to the light, gently patting the crook of her elbow, carefully searching for a vein. Her veins were thin—easy to find in daylight, but not so much now. She patted a bit harder, but worried the sound would be heard. When her skin turned slightly red and she felt confident, she took the used swab and wiped the injection site.

I should get some iodine, she thought, that would be better.

She picked up the needle, aimed.

It doesn’t really hurt, she told herself. But she still couldn’t help clenching her teeth.

The needle tip entered her skin, very slowly—her hand was steady.

It hurt more than she’d imagined.

Did it go into the vein? She wasn’t sure, but sweat was already rolling down her forehead.

Her thumb pressed the plunger, starting to push. The pain persisted, which didn’t seem right. Then she saw the skin at the injection site swelling up bit by bit. She’d missed the vein.

She pulled out the needle, wiped her sweat—her hand was damp, her palm too. She wiped it with her pillowcase, examined the mosquito-bite-sized bump on her arm, and decided to try again.

It had to be the same arm—she couldn’t manage the needle with her left hand. She started patting again, and after a few tries, the vein seemed more obvious than before. Then she disinfected, raised the needle, and inserted it—right next to the bump.

This time, she injected the whole tube of glucose solution. She let out a breath, didn’t bother to stop the bleeding, quickly took the needle apart and put it back in the aluminum box, got off the bed, put the box and saline bottle back in their places, then pressed the alcohol swab to the needle mark for a moment, and finally put the swab and match remains into the pencil case in her backpack.

Tomorrow will be easier, she thought, because today’s needle mark could serve as a reference. But that wasn’t good—she shouldn’t rely on reference points. Maybe when there were too many marks, she’d have to try injecting her right arm with her left hand, alternating between them. At worst, there’d be a few more bumps—they’d go down quickly. Thinking this, she pressed the bump—it hurt a little.

She pulled down her sleeve, waited for her sweat to dry, and only then did Susan Wright return to the outer room. Shirley Wright was working on exercises, glanced at her, but said nothing. Susan Wright took an old plastic bag and poured the leftover porridge from the pot into it.

“Going to feed the cats again?” Shirley Wright asked.

“Mm.”

“I really want to go with you, play with the kittens and puppies. They must be really close to you now, right?” Shirley Wright sounded a bit envious.

“But be careful about hygiene—stray cats have parasites. Fleas and such, don’t bring them home,” she added.

“I know, I won’t touch them carelessly. Every time I come back, I wash my hands twice,” Susan Wright replied.

“It’s already eight thirty, don’t stay out too long.”

“Okay.”

Susan Wright carried the plastic bag and left the house. There was no moon, and no streetlights, but in this old neighborhood, every alley—wide or narrow—had lights on in every house, though they were all dim, a faint yellow glow.

Susan Wright left the house, walked to the intersection ahead, stopped to make sure no one was around, then quietly returned, almost soundless. In front of her house was an outdoor faucet, with a few pots of flowers by the water trough. This little spot could be considered their family’s territory. Susan Wright moved the flowerpot at the edge, revealing a stack of red bricks. She lifted one brick, uncovering a hollow space underneath. She reached in and pulled out a cloth bag.

Left hand holding the cloth bag, right hand holding the plastic bag, Susan Wright strolled through the old streets, wandering until she entered a dead-end alley where even during the day few people passed. Only then did she stop, set down the plastic bag, and open the cloth bag.

The first thing she took out was an oiled paper packet, which contained a pair of thin medical rubber gloves. She carefully picked up a corner of the gloves and put them on, as if they were very dirty. Next, she took out a glass bottle, unscrewed the cap, and poured the cloudy, viscous liquid inside onto the leftover porridge. She kneaded the bag through the plastic, mixing it all together. Then she put the bottle back in the cloth bag. There were some other tools inside, but for now, they weren’t needed.