Heat Returning to the Lane

Xu Zhixia dragged a half-worn suitcase into Hawthorn Street at 3:30 in the afternoon. The sun was like a sheet of iron pulled too tight, pressing down on every brick, every windowpane, every shoulder on the street. Half the leaves had already fallen from the crooked old locust tree at the entrance. Its shade was so thin it looked like a frayed piece of gauze, barely covering the stall that sold ice jelly. Wind came down from under the overpass carrying the smell of machine oil, stir-fried noodles, and the concrete dust rising from a distant construction site. It swept across the street like a breath turned hot. She stopped at the entrance and reached for her camera out of habit. Her left shoulder was empty.