They say today is the end of the world. And so, the 39-degree heat of Wuhan’s summer arrived especially early. The weather in Wuhan today: 39 degrees Celsius. Don’t ask. Wuhan’s weather is only ever allowed to be 39 degrees. Even if the sun in the sky were to fall on your face, the temperature would still only be permitted to be 39 degrees. At a time like this, if you dared to go out under the sun and lick a utility pole by the road, you’d hear a sizzle, and your tongue would be seared. ...

Lin Song took out his phone and found his instructor, Mr. Zhou, on WeChat. The map showed the location of the coffee shop he had recommended. It was over 700 meters from the bus stop, an eight-minute walk. His interview with the coffee shop owner was scheduled for 10:30 AM; he should be on time. This past Tuesday, he had finished his barista course at the training school. After the exam next Friday, he would receive his graduation certificate. Learning to make bread and coffee, he thought, was far more interesting than preparing for the Gaokao. The funny thing was, even the instructors sometimes messed up, and you could actually laugh in class—something that was never allowed back in his high school. ...

The sky this summer was exceptionally blue. In this often-gray city, there are always a few days in the year perfect for looking up at the sky. As the sun set, a crescent moon would appear simultaneously in the southern sky. It looked white and tender, with a kind of delicate posture that Lin Song found endearing. Lin Song had always loved summer vacation. The break was long enough, a full two months. At the beginning of every summer, he would set a small goal for himself: to finish all his summer homework within two weeks. ...

The two Qilin have been crouching at the entrance of the shopping mall for twenty-four years. I don’t know what material they’re coated with, but they are entirely jet-black and haven’t shown a speck of rust all these years. At first, Manager Wang from the property management department told Lin Song that the two statues at the main entrance were Qilin. So, Lin Song called them Qilin. In any case, Lin Song had never seen a living Qilin, and Manager Wang was always exceptionally serious and responsible in his work. His words were worthy of Lin Song’s trust. ...

“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. ...