Chapter 31

In Jiang Shan’s life, it seemed every stage had trapped her in some form or space.
The orphanage where she had grown up was among the shabbiest. In her memory the director was always either begging for donations or on the way to beg.
Even so the orphanage ran at a loss year after year. People’s goodwill had been worn thin; life was hard enough without spare energy to help others.
Other children could go to community events and win donations with cuteness. Jiang Shan was just an extra mouth to feed.
Before she was six she couldn’t even get out of bed. At mealtimes a carer brought her scraps. That left her malnourished and skeletal. When she finally could walk, people took one look at her sallow, gaunt face—any hope of “cute” was gone.
So the other children excluded her, disliked her. Everyone had to earn their keep; why should she get a free ride?
Children didn’t have clear ideas of good and evil—only simple black and white.
The worst was one night when she couldn’t breathe. She opened her eyes and someone was choking her—a boy under ten. The viciousness on his face was real.
Later she forgot who had saved her. She only remembered waking to find the director, who never showed his face, sitting by her bed. For the first time she had felt cared for. Like the word in books: “father.”
That day at lunch she had even been given a box of milk. After that the other children stayed far away from her—they scattered like startled birds when she appeared. She never saw the boy who had choked her again at the orphanage.
Jiang Shan felt no guilt. She didn’t care where the boy had gone. It had nothing to do with her anymore.
Everyone was an orphan. Everyone was alone. Whatever kindness there was, people kept for themselves.
…
Jiang Shan fiddled with the small radio. No Bluetooth—old-style, with an antenna. Only two knobs: volume and channel.
When Zhang Wanqiu had taken it from her pocket it had looked ready to hand. What nurse carried an antique radio in her pocket?
Jiang Shan turned the channel knob. Static, then broken sound—a song she didn’t know. She frowned and kept turning. More static, then hissing. None of the channels were listenable.
She gave up.
She picked up the book Zhang Wanqiu had brought—a tedious, sentimental novel. She lost interest after the first page. The book was tattered, as if fished from a bin.
She was about to set it aside when she thought of something. She picked it up again and turned to the copyright page to check the publication date.
February 199x.
??? No wonder it felt ancient—they had given her a book from decades ago?
By the end of the day she was bored to tears. The mattress was soft. She lay back and stared at the ceiling.
In one corner of the ceiling she saw something faintly dark. In that white room it stood out—as if the wall were corroding, turning black.
But it didn’t look like ordinary mould or discolouration. And Jiang Shan was sure it hadn’t been there yesterday.
She frowned. The more she looked, the more the black substance seemed to be moving.