Insights

“Hurry, hurry, it’s green.” The words had barely left his lips when the pedestrian light turned red. Lin Song had a good, long sleep, a full ten hours of it. It was only after waking that he felt a chill on his back; the blanket had been bunched up under his stomach at some point. The air conditioner had been running all night, which let him sleep soundly—perhaps because he had been so exhausted the day before. He ran a hand through his thinning hair and comforted himself that sleeping an extra two hours once in a while wasn’t an extravagance. He was at an age where sleep was supposed to get shorter, so sleeping in this late felt more satisfying than eating a plate of braised pork ribs. ...

He woke up even earlier today. “Do you know what Los Angeles looks like at four in the morning?” He was only an hour later than Kobe. Call it the time difference between Los Angeles and Hankou, Lin Song thought, forgiving himself as he bathed in the cool, crisp midsummer morning breeze. The sign of the corner ice cream shop at the mall was lit up day and night, as if determined to adorn the city’s summer nights, which were soon to become scorching hot. ...

After raining all day, the sky began to clear toward evening. The setting sun cast a brilliant golden glow on the glass curtain walls of the high-rise buildings. It took Lin Song a full hour to inch his way from Yindun Street, west of Hankou Railway Station, to Jinsui Street on the east side. The square in front of the station was gridlocked with countless ride-share cars. Lin Song parked in the underground garage and then went to the bus stop across the road. Several bus routes went directly to Qushuilou, and from there, it was just a few minutes’ walk to Liangliang Steamed Crayfish in the Wansongyuan district. ...

The streetlights were already out, but the sky had yet to fully brighten. After the summer solstice, the days grow shorter, the nights longer. It had been a long time since Lin Song had woken up this early. If he didn’t leave right away, he would never check off all the items on his to-do list. From the kitchen, he could hear the pitter-patter of what might be rain striking the awning outside. Lin Song couldn’t tell if it was actually raining or just condensation dripping from an upstairs air conditioner. ...

Lin Song’s cat is named Xiao Xiao, from the word xiaosǎ, meaning “dashing” or “free-spirited.” This British Shorthair was a gift from the “Cat Auntie” in Building 7 of his apartment complex. The Cat Auntie keeps seventeen cats. Xiao Xiao and his three siblings were born to the same mother, and he was the runt of the litter. When the Cat Auntie placed Xiao Xiao in Lin Song’s hands, she confidently told him it was a female. “Taking a cat from me,” she declared, “is like taking home a bundle of good fortune.” ...

After a four-month shutdown, the Baocheng Street Night Market was finally open again. “Zhang Wanqin, are you still drinking? Time to set up your stall!” “Last sip! Be right down!” Lin Song, pulling his flatbed cart, habitually yelled up toward the second floor as he passed the alleyway entrance. He was always the first to arrive. Every day, once his freezer chest was settled in its usual spot, the stalls to his left and right would extend out from it like coordinates, leaving a corridor down the middle of the road for people to walk. For over twenty years, the rule had never changed. ...

There was a moderately sized coffee industry exhibition at the International Expo Center over the weekend. Lin Song had long lost his enthusiasm for joining crowds; whether in his daily life or in business, he instinctively resisted excessive exertion. Lately, however, his business seemed to be turning a corner. As the May weather grew warmer, the coffee shop’s losses narrowed. It looked as if with a bit more diligent effort, profitability was within reach. His wholesale coffee bean business had also picked up. Although the cafés he had personally cultivated as clients were closing down one after another, his distribution channel customers had persevered, with sales volumes and turnover rates actually increasing. And so, on mornings when he was awoken by the sunlight, Lin Song felt a long-lost glimmer of anticipation for the future. This glimmer was just enough to coax him out of the house. ...

The rain from last night, neither too heavy nor too light, had finally ceased before dawn. The air was filled with the damp, earthy smell of the soil, mingled with the unique clamor of a city awakening. The wet asphalt glistened under the sparse streetlights, reflecting a cool, clean light. A news alert popped up on Lin Song’s phone: The U.S. had bombed Iran. The world was vast, a stage for distant gunfire and conflict, like a movie that had nothing to do with him. Lin Song’s world, however, was small—so small it was confined to the path leading to the breakfast shop. Today, the city’s high school entrance exams were finally over. The long period of noise and tension seemed to have found a moment of respite along with the final bell. ...

In Wuhan, the last ten days of every June are always a time of torrential downpours. It’s as if their frenzied nature has offended the Dragon King; the relentless rain shrouds the city for more than ten days straight. A thousand years ago, Hankou was still a marsh. In the rainy summers, the wild ducks were happiest. Back then, there was endless rain from the sky and an inexhaustible supply of small fish in the lakes. As all of nature flourished, all the wild ducks had to do was dart about, twisting their nimble necks and eating nonstop. When full, they would nap under the shade of a tree. Waking at dusk, they would rush into the ponds and continue eating. The wild ducks in the Hankou marsh grew fat and plump, their feathers glossy and sleek. ...

In Lin Song’s childhood memories, summer vacation was intrinsically linked to his grandmother and the fragrance of the earth. Every July, when the school’s white walls were scorched by the blazing sun and the teacher on the podium wrote the final stroke with a piece of chalk to announce the start of the holiday, his heart had already flown to the small village nestled deep in the lake district. His father would always drive the old “Jiefang” (Liberation) brand truck from his work unit, taking him to his grandmother’s doorstep amidst a roaring “chug-chug-chug” and clouds of dust. Lin Song had once asked how much coal the truck could carry at once. His father held up five rough fingers and said proudly, “Five tons. Enough to keep a large courtyard of families warm for an entire winter.” ...