As night fell, Wuhan, having passed the “Minor Heat” solar term, was somehow less scorching.

The clouds in the sky were always piled thick, clump after clump, like sun umbrellas, blocking the sun from time to time. Occasionally, at dusk, the heavens would bestow a stingy shower, taming some of the fierce heat of the scalding asphalt roads.

The shelves outside the HotMaxx discount store were diligently displaying all kinds of beer. A 500ml can of Budweiser, nearing its expiration date, sold for only 4 yuan. There were no 330ml cans in the promotion, which seemed to suggest that people’s starting volume for beer consumption had seen a substantial increase. Although he rarely drank anymore, Linsong still bought a case. Even if he didn’t drink it, just having it chilled in the fridge and seeing the pile of beer every time he opened the door felt cooling.

After dinner, Linsong prepared to go dance in the square in front of the Vanke Mall. Auntie Xu from Building Two ran into Linsong buying beltfish at the wet market while she was buying leatherjacket fish. The seasoned Linsong was an expert at picking out seafood; he helped Auntie Xu pick five plump leatherjacket fish. In return, Auntie Xu shared the QR code for her dance group with him.

It had been over half a month since Linsong applied to join the “Oriental Melody” dance group. Yesterday, the group leader, Sister Zhao, announced the collection of next month’s fee: 20 yuan per person. Without much thought, Linsong paid his share.

Linsong wasn’t there to do the “thump-cha-cha” of the three-step ballroom dance. The few uncles doing square dancing were mostly doing the three-step. Each uncle there had an auntie for a partner, swaying their supple waists to the heavy drumbeat. The aunties twirled under the uncles’ raised arms. Linsong couldn’t do it; his arm was in constant pain and he couldn’t raise it.

Linsong didn’t comply with Sister Zhao’s request to buy the uniform tracksuit. When the aunties danced, they all wore canary-yellow T-shirts, the color of new spring buds, as if they were draped in the feathers of young chicks. Linsong decided to wear his own beige polo shirt, preserving a final shred of individuality.

As he left the house, he put on the grayish-white baseball cap his son had bought him, tucked a folding fan into his back pocket, and wrapped a sweat towel around his wrist. He took half a bottle of iced lemon tea from the fridge and topped it off with hot water from the kettle. On hot summer days, it’s essential to stay hydrated during exercise.

Sometimes, when boiling water, Linsong would fill the kettle slightly above the “max” line. It wasn’t illegal, of course, but at his age, it was probably the closest he got to a life of crime.

The moment he stepped out of the air-conditioned room, he felt the summer heat wave. On the hottest nights, the square entered its most brilliant season. People, having finished dinner, gathered there to dissipate the fatigue of a long day’s work. Children climbed a lookout tower, and it was often the nimble-bodied girls who made it to the very top. They hung from the highest point, swaying and shouting with joy. Moms and dads, grandpas and grandmas, carried the shops’ Kermit chairs out to the square. They sat in rows, chatting and laughing, watching their children climb the tower.

On the west side of the square, a group of aunties was practicing a dance with props. Each held a round fan. The graceful lead instructor, wearing a headband and twirling her fan with an elegant “orchid finger” pose, looked slender and poised. The entire evening was dedicated to breaking down the moves—every gesture, every bend and turn, had to be perfect. The team members studied their instructor’s guidance intently, flicking their wrists and raising their eyebrows, over and over again.

Far from the dance group’s speakers, the Starbucks was much quieter. Its outdoor tables and chairs were cordoned off behind a row of planters. A few young people who had brought their own Pepsis sat there, complaining to each other about the difficult project proposals their clients had recently submitted. An uncle with a neatly trimmed, salt-and-pepper crew cut sipped his iced Americano and quietly scrolled through his phone. An uncle in a white T-shirt walked his white-haired dog across the square. The uncle’s slightly chubby beer belly matched the dog’s portly frame; they moved at an unhurried pace.

A bicycle shop had a small café integrated into it, but there was no espresso machine on the counter. The sign clearly stated they only sold cold brew, which didn’t require a machine. It might be a good idea, but who would consistently drink cold brew coffee? In any case, it wasn’t an option in Linsong’s routine.

The young people in the square were always in a hurry. They were either heading to the supermarket inside the mall to buy something or carrying shopping bags home. Young people didn’t linger in the square. The back of one young man’s T-shirt featured a range of distant mountains with the words: “The Mountains Calling.” In an 1873 letter to his sister, John Muir wrote, “The mountains are calling and I must go.”

The temporary access lane for the residential community was already piled high with trash cans awaiting collection. The worker responsible for them parked his truck in the lane and sat on a guardrail, scrolling through his phone, waiting to return the empty cans to their spots.

When talking about serious matters, never forget to have a cup of coffee after dark.