Chapter 37

Once “erosion” began, it didn’t stop. Everyone knew that.
The man had still been begging for help, but his features were already eaten away by “rust.” It was only a matter of time before he turned to dust.
Zhang Zheng thought: if that stuff grew on his own face… better to put a bullet in his head.
To watch yourself die like that, fully aware—no death was crueller.
It wasn’t that they were cold or heartless. You saw it too often. Not even Buddha could shed a tear.
Gao Wenwu pulled something like a gas mask from under the seat, put it on, and rolled down his window. He leaned out to check the roof and the sides, making sure no one else was clinging on, then pulled back in and wound the window up.
He took off the mask and let out a long breath, wiped his face—maybe that face on the glass had shaken him. He needed to feel he was still flesh and blood. He urged Zhang Zheng: “Get us out of this hell.”
—
Since she had woken, Jiang Shan had asked only two questions: 1) Where is this? 2) Where is the toilet?
Director Geng Jianghui, nearly eighty, looked as if he had no words. Every wrinkle seemed to hold bewilderment.
They had rehearsed how to answer Jiang Shan’s questions. But their preparations had been useless—like punching cotton. As if she had said: I know you want to spin a story, but don’t bother.
… Awkward for everyone.
On the table behind the two men lay an old backpack—the one Zhang Wanqiu had said was “safely in a locker.” All of Jiang Shan’s things were inside. On her first day they had been checked inside and out. Including her ID.
So Jiang Shan had just turned twenty. The trip she spoke of had been five months ago—when everything had begun.
Among her things was a crumpled notice from the cave hotel.
Many hotels had such leaflets; most people didn’t look twice. This one was so worn it didn’t look five months old—more like fifty years.
At least three rounds of “experts” had gone through the backpack and found nothing. They had even opened the inner pocket. It was empty.
Geng Jianghui sighed. “The network system has completely failed. We can’t look up anything else.” The ID was just a useless card now.
They knew her name and age. Nothing else. Her past, her jobs—all unknown.
To them Jiang Shan was an ordinary twenty-year-old. The only odd thing was how calm she was—not like a girl her age at all.
Geng Jianghui asked: “Did Wei Yuan give any information?” He had spent over ten days in the same vehicle as her.
Zhao Qisheng’s face was cold. He thought of what Zhang Zheng had “described”: “He said she was the same in the truck—hardly spoke.” Zhang Zheng said the girl did only two things: eat and sleep.
No different from now in the hospital.
Unbelievable…
The two national treasures stared at the monitor, expressions complicated.
Jiang Shan found two more needle marks on her arms.
One was thick, one thin—one on each arm. Her skin had always been thinner than most, so any needle left a mark.
She guessed the thick one on her left arm was for drawing blood. The thin one—she didn’t know what they had injected.
So that was why they fed her so well. Nothing in the world was free.
She looked up at the washroom ceiling. Clean. As if it had all been her imagination again.
Once might make her doubt. Twice might be coincidence. But this was getting old.
Jiang Shan sat on the toilet and sank back into thought.