He randomly took a few pieces of clothing out of the suitcase and hung them in the wardrobe, left the rest in the suitcase and stuffed it under the cabinet, then took out a bottle of perfume and sprayed it into the wardrobe about ten times before finally closing the wardrobe door and sitting down on the edge of the bed.

The phone rang. He fished it out and glanced at it—the caller ID showed "Mom." He answered.

"Have you arrived?" His mom's voice came from the other end.

"Yeah." Brian Carter replied.

"The conditions there aren't as good as at home," his mom said, "it might take some time to get used to."

"No need." Brian Carter said.

His mom paused: "Xiao Cheng, I still hope you don't feel..."

"I don't feel that way." Brian Carter said.

"All these years, we haven't treated you badly. Your dad and I never let you know you were adopted, right?" His mom's voice took on its usual sternness.

"But now I know," Brian Carter said, "and I've already been kicked out."

"Don't forget, your dad was sent to the hospital by you during the New Year! He still hasn't been discharged!" His mom raised her voice.

Brian Carter didn't say anything. He couldn't figure out what his dad's pneumonia hospitalization had to do with him.

And whatever else his mom said after that, he somehow didn't catch any of it. This was his skill—he could truly block out anything he didn't want to hear.

His mom's stern and hollow reproaches, and what he considered completely ineffective communication, were the fuse for his breakdown.

He didn't want to listen, didn't want to argue in this unfamiliar environment that made his whole body uncomfortable.

By the time the call ended, he couldn't even remember what had been said—what his mom said, what he said—it was all forgotten.

He wanted to take a shower. Brian Carter got up and opened the door, glanced into the living room—no one there.

He cleared his throat, coughed a few times—no response.

"Are you... there?" He walked into the living room, really not sure how to address David Thompson.

The place was small; from the living room you could see all the doors to the bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom at a glance. David Thompson wasn't home.

Probably went to play cards—someone who would even squeeze in a few rounds while picking someone up at the street corner.

"Come on—let's play cards—there's plenty of time anyway," Brian Carter sang a line, pushing open the bathroom door, "Come on—let's shower—anyway..."

There was no water heater in the bathroom.

"Anyway..." he kept singing, glanced back at the kitchen connected to the bathroom—no water heater there either, just an electric heater on the faucet. "Anyway..."

He couldn't keep singing. After circling around twice and confirming there was no water heater in the whole place, he just felt stifled and slammed his hand on the faucet. "Fuck."

After wandering outside all day, he couldn't sleep without a shower.

In the end, he had to go back to the room, drag out his suitcase, pull out a collapsible bucket, and, wearing only his underwear, carry bucket after bucket of water into the bathroom, going back and forth, half-wiping, half-washing, and finally managed to get himself clean.

As he walked out of the bathroom, a cockroach scurried past his foot. He jumped to dodge it and almost crashed into the door.

Back in the room, as he turned off the light and tried to force himself to sleep, Brian Carter finally noticed there were no curtains in the room, and the reason he hadn't seen the view outside was because the glass was too dirty.

He pulled the blanket over himself, hesitated, then tugged the edge of the blanket to his nose and sniffed it. Only after confirming it was clean did he breathe a sigh of relief—he didn't even have the energy to sigh anymore.

He lay there with his eyes closed for about half an hour, his eyes aching from being shut so long, but still couldn't fall asleep. Just as he was about to sit up and smoke a cigarette, his phone chimed.

He picked it up and saw a message from Henry Cooper.

-Damn, you left? What's going on now?

Brian Carter lit a cigarette, dialed Henry Cooper's number, and, cigarette dangling from his lips, walked to the window, wanting to open it.

The window was covered in dust and rust. He struggled with it for a while—by the time Henry Cooper answered, the window still hadn't budged.

"Cheng?" Henry Cooper whispered like a thief.

"Fuck." Brian Carter's finger got pricked by something, and he cursed with a frown, giving up on opening the window.

"What's going on with you?" Henry Cooper was still whispering. "I heard from Grace Foster today that you left? Didn't you say you'd tell me when you left? I even bought a bunch of stuff to give you!"

"Just mail it to me." Brian Carter put on his jacket, cigarette in mouth, walked to the living room, opened the door to go out, but remembered he didn't have a key after stepping out, so he had to go back in and open the living room window instead.

The frustration inside him was like a storm—one more ounce of annoyance and he could break into a song of rage.

"You've already gone over?" Henry Cooper asked.

"Yeah." Brian Carter leaned against the windowsill, looking at the pitch-black street outside.

"So? How's your real dad?" Henry Cooper asked again.

"Do you have anything to say or not?" Brian Carter said. "I don't want to talk right now."

"Fuck, it's not like I sent you over," Henry Cooper clicked his tongue, "Why are you pissed at me? When your mom said 'the adoptee's consent is required,' you didn't hesitate at all, and now you're upset!"

"Not hesitating and being upset aren't mutually exclusive." Brian Carter exhaled a puff of smoke.